


The Proposal

by Singofsolace



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 1998), The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama & Romance, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-06-15 02:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15402657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singofsolace/pseuds/Singofsolace
Summary: Hecate Hardbroom had planned on spending her weekend dead to the world, without a drop of Wide Awake Potion in sight. Little did she know she would be attending a wedding: her own...."The Proposal" AU, as promised. My tumblr username is @concreteangel1221.





	1. Prologue

Hecate Hardbroom was never one to admit exhaustion, but on her seventh week of working unpaid overtime trying to make sure _Healing Herbs and Where to Find Them_ made its scheduled publish date, her vision was starting to blur. There were simply not enough hours in a day—or week, or month—and her boss frowned upon using time spells to mitigate overwork. This was a curiosity, considering Hecate happened to know for a fact that Pippa Pentangle, Chief Editor of _Pentangle’s Publications_ , kept a bottle of “Mists of Time” in the third drawer down on the right side of her desk.

Hecate only needed to make it through a couple more weeks, and then she could sleep. Maybe. She was never very good at sleeping through the night, but even an insomniac needs a break from the torture of ticking clocks. Besides, she had consumed far too much Wide Awake Potion lately, and the side effects were becoming more and more pronounced. Her hands were starting to tremble, so she flattened them against her desk, bracing herself for a moment. She needed another dose, but the work day was almost over, and she really did want to try and get some sleep tonight.

The weekend was coming up, at least. While most weekends found Hecate at the office anyway, plucking at keys and finishing up tasks that were neglected during the week, Hecate was determined to set aside some time for herself, if only to prevent a nervous collapse. Having worked herself into such a fragile state of body and mind, it was no surprise that when she was called into Miss Pentangle’s office at half-past six on a Thursday evening, she was thoroughly unprepared to discover that she would be attending a wedding this weekend.

_Her own._


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa was really rather terrible at remembering her appointments.

Pippa was not what one would call “organized.”

Deadlines were frequently missed, or pushed back, or ignored altogether. If it weren’t for her assistant forcing her to sign urgent paperwork and contracts, nothing would get done on time at all. Her maglet messages would get “lost” in the ether of the digital universe for weeks before she would respond, _if_ she responded. She frequently forgot important appointments, which was why she had given her assistant permission to cancel them at the last minute by any means necessary. This required Hecate Hardbroom to supply increasingly fantastical reasons for why Pippa was unable to attend a meeting of her own making. While Pippa believed Hecate lacked imagination in that department, she enjoyed the look that came over Hecate’s face when she was tasked with fabricating yet another excuse.

Once, Pippa had told Hecate to cancel her meeting with a Mapuche shaman. They were set to publish a book about different witching traditions from all around the world, and it was suggested rather indiscreetly to Pippa that she might think of fact-checking some of the material that was presented in certain chapters before signing off on it. Apparently, it was rumored that Mr. Algernon Rowan-Webb, author of said book, had spent thirty years in the form of various animals indigenous to different parts of the world in order to observe cultures that would otherwise reject his presence. Unsurprisingly, her assistant took issue with this form of information gathering—went so far as to say it was “hardly legal,” “morally bankrupt,” and a “deplorable violation of privacy.” Hecate could be about as subtle as broomstick through a glass window at times.

In Pippa’s defense, she had cancelled the appointment for a good reason. Her mother had been ill. Hospitalized, in fact, though Pippa hadn’t told a soul, for fear of once again seeing the pitying looks she had received when her father passed. Pippa knew that people made judgments about her intelligence and character, especially when it came to her outfits—tight and gloriously pink, all of them—but when it came to her family, no one could accuse her of being a couple witches short of a séance.  It didn’t matter that she had a meeting scheduled with a legendary _bruja_ or _kalku_ or whatever—“ _Machi_ ,” Hecate had corrected, had _hissed,_ as if Pippa had said something particularly offensive or distasteful—Pippa can still remember the look Hecate had given her, as if her assistant had finally reached her limit, and yet, ten years later, Pippa was still receiving some version of _the look_ at least once a week _._

The shaman, or whatever she was, had come all the way from South America for the meeting. Since Pippa had left the office for the hospital almost as soon as the woman had arrived, she had to rely on what she heard through the grapevine to know what was said. According to Dimity (whose function at the company besides resident gossip Pippa still didn’t know, even fifteen years after her father had left it to her) Hecate told the _machi_ the cancellation was due to her boss’ “sudden bout of incurable ignorance and indifference to Chilean culture.” Pippa would’ve been tempted to fire Hecate over that particular jab, except that she _had_ given Hecate permission to offer whatever excuse first came to mind. She also heard that Hecate, in a stunning and uncharacteristic show of defiance, had left work two hours earlier than she normally would have in order to take the woman out to dinner.

Today’s meeting was only a slight exception to her typical boldness when it came to cancelling. For once, Pippa had remembered on her own that she had an appointment with Egbert Hellibore, C.E.O. of _Pentangle’s Publications_ and an unrepentant asshole. He had been a business associate of her late father’s and had helped build _Pentangle’s Publications_ into the powerful publishing house that it was today. Quite frankly, it was Hellibore’s money and influence, more than Peter Pentangle’s quick wit, big ideas, and winning smile, that got the company on to the map in the first place.

That didn’t mean she had to like him.

By all accounts, he was a sexist pig who shouldn’t be allowed within ten feet of a woman. According to Hellibore, Pippa’s continued position as Chief Editor was only a courtesy to the memory of Peter Pentangle and his wishes upon his death.

Meetings with Hellibore were about as pleasant as re-potting mandrakes. She always had Hecate interrupt them after fifteen minutes with something “urgent” that needed her attention. She hoped Hecate would sense her current mood, and perhaps come in even earlier today. Pippa didn’t have the energy to deal with whatever it was that Hellibore felt the need to see her about. It was almost always a conversation about Pippa’s “irresponsible and reckless” spending.

On second thought, maybe she _did_ still have time to cancel. Hecate should be able to come up with something, even with only ten minutes to go before the loathsome man darkened her door.

Pippa had just stood up from her desk to seek out her assistant when she heard a decisive and overly-loud “pop.” Leave it to Hellibore to transport directly into her office, rather than politely knock on her door and wait to be welcomed in.

If there were ever a person she would kill, given lawful opportunity, it would be the man standing before her now.

Egbert Hellibore cut an imposing and distinguished figure in his formal robes. Why he felt the need for such peacocking around her she would never know. It didn’t impress her or intimidate her. Quite frankly, she found him all the more ridiculous for it.

“Pippa,” said Hellibore, walking toward her with long, deliberate strides.

“Eg-bert,” said Pippa, with too much emphasis on the first syllable. She knew how much he hated it when she did that by the way his lips curled.

“You’ve really done it this time, Pippa.”

Pippa had to refrain from rolling her eyes. She’d “really done it,” whatever “it” was, at least twenty times in recent memory.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Hellibore’s eyes narrowed ferociously. “Were you aware that your magical visa application was under review when you decided to attend a nonmagical event in New York?”

Well, whatever she had been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. “Oh, come on. New York is the publishing capital of the world, magical or nonmagical—”

“The Border Agency doesn’t care about your New York trysts,” Hellibore interrupted, waving a scornful hand. “You weren’t at the Met Gala to field literary pitches. You know how dangerous it is to risk exposure—and for what? An assignation with a stranger in an expensive dress?”

Pippa could feel the anger rising in her like a physical tide, but she couldn’t afford to take his bait. So, she pushed her indignation down until it sunk deep into the pit of her stomach and tried to answer this appalling man’s insults with logic. “My reasons for being there are none of your business. Besides, they always renew my visa.”

Hellibore’s eyes practically sparkled with excitement. “Not this time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your visa application was denied. You’re being deported.” Hellibore smiled. “In addition to gallivanting in New York, you seem to have not filled out some paperwork on time.”

Pippa scoffed. “You’re not serious. That can’t be—it’s…it’s not like I’m even a _real_ immigrant—”

“Oh, really, Miss Pentangle? How do _you_ define the word ‘immigrant?’ Pray tell,” said Hellibore, his sarcasm a nasty, heavy thing between them.

Pippa paced behind her desk, trying to get rid of the excess energy that was building up inside of her. Subtly, while putting on a show of “thinking” about a definition, she silently chanted a spell that would alert Hecate’s alarm to come to her office.   _There must be a way out of this._ If anyone would know a way, it would be Hecate.

Pippa turned on her heel, a sharp move, a violent one. She was done dealing with this man’s condescension. “I’m from _France,_ for goddess’ sake! I went to a British boarding school, I’ve lived in the UK since I was sixteen—I don’t even have a French accent. I’m not some refugee!”

Neither person took notice of the door opening. Hellibore rounded Pippa’s desk, advancing on her with a dangerous amount of loose magic crackling in the air around him. “You can speak the Queen’s English and still be a French _slut_!”

Hecate Hardbroom’s pale face appeared, hovering in the doorway. “Excuse me, Miss Pentangle. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

As ludicrous as the thought was, considering Pippa had quite literally just _summoned_ her assistant with magic, she was suddenly struck by the idea that Hecate might just be there, in the doorway, of her own free will, a white knight if there ever was one, to save her from—

_Oh._

Everything stopped.

Hellibore was only two feet away from Pippa, but somehow the presence of another person had, miraculously, halted whatever extreme action he was going to take. Pippa was frozen in place, staring at her assistant with fresh eyes, as if seeing her for the very first time.

“Miss Pentangle? Is…everything alright?” Hecate felt the full weight of Pippa’s stare, and her own eyes darted quickly between her boss and Hellibore, unsure.

“No, but it will be, thanks to you,” said Pippa smoothly, putting on her best smile—the kind she usually saved for winning over difficult clients—as she sauntered over to Hecate.

“Miss—?”

Hecate’s words were lost to her as Pippa moved very, very close.

“It’s alright. It’s high time we did away with this silly charade.”

When Pippa wrapped an arm around Hecate’s waist, and pulled her flush against her body, Hecate truly thought she was hallucinating. She should have taken that extra dose, after all.

Thoroughly shocked by the display, Hellibore shook himself out of his stillness. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Well, I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you, Egbert.” Pippa squeezed Hecate’s hip, earning a sharp inhale from her assistant.

“We’re getting married.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, a "machi" is a healer and religious leader in the Mapuche culture of Chile and Argentina. The term "kalku" is sometimes used for them instead, but that word has an "evil" connotation, while "machi" has a good one. Female machi who are more "masculine" in their appearance/demeanor are sometimes called "bruja" which is a derogatory term, meaning "witch." In my head it makes sense that Pippa, having only really glanced at that section of Algernon's book, would choose the word "witch," thinking it's okay to say, because she obviously refers to herself as a witch, and doesn't know any better. I hope this explanation is accurate to the culture, but seeing as I only learned it from my own second-hand research, it could certainly be less accurate than I hope it is. If anyone knows more about this, I'd be happy to change anything that seems wrong about the way I've described it here, or portrayed it in the story.
> 
> Since the prologue was so short, I thought I'd post this chapter right away so that everyone could have a little more of the story. As always, please read and review!


	3. The Hallucination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate really didn't get paid enough to deal with the likes of him.

Hecate Hardbroom hated Egbert Hellibore. Unequivocally. She had worked for _Pentangle’s Publications_ for precisely twenty years, five of which were under the direct management of Mr. Pentangle, and she could say, without reservation, that Mr. Hellibore was the _worst_ kind of man. He was rude, he was aggressive, and he was downright misogynistic. He had once cornered Hecate against her desk to ask why she wasn’t “nicer” to him—not to mention the time he made a suggestive comment about her Spanish mother—and she simply didn’t have the patience to handle him anymore.

While Hecate could never be accused of having particularly warm feelings toward Miss Pentangle—whose job should have been Hecate’s, if the world were practical instead of partial to paternal prejudice and sentiment—she did feel some sympathy. When her father died so tragically, Pippa was thrust into a…difficult position. She was woefully unqualified to be the chief editor of a company so large and renowned, and what was worse was that everyone _knew_ it, and treated her accordingly.

But no one deserved to be treated the way that she was by Mr. Hellibore, and Hecate wondered how long she should wait before interrupting the meeting that sounded as though it had gone south very quickly, even through the closed door.

Hecate wasn’t particularly surprised. Hellibore had a temper, and it was never so short as when he was in the presence of the “girl” he so disliked. Perhaps _disliked_ wasn’t the word—the ghost of Peter Pentangle never left Hellibore’s side, and so he was partial to her charm, occasionally—but he had never respected Pippa, never _tried_ to respect her, and Hecate knew firsthand what constantly combatting that kind of disrespect can do to one’s energy reserves.

Perhaps Hecate wasn’t the only one at _Pentangle’s Publications_ in need of a break.

Off went her alarm. On her desk sat a pentagram made out of popsicle sticks. Hecate never understood it, though she did know Pippa had glued and charmed it herself. It glowed when Miss Pentangle wished to see her, and Hecate was not at all surprised that the meeting had lasted exactly seven minutes before she was required to intervene.

She opened the door upon quite a scene.

Hellibore was moving towards Pippa, in one of his fits of rage, and Hecate was impressed by the fact that Pippa didn’t take a step back or even flinch.

“You can speak the Queen’s English and still be a French _slut_!”

Hecate _really_ didn’t get paid enough to deal with the likes of him.

“Excuse me, Miss Pentangle. I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Hecate. It was entirely a lie—she wasn’t sorry at all.

All eyes turned to her. Hellibore’s shocked yet furious stare was to be expected, but there was something strange in Miss Pentangle’s eyes. They were big and brown and suddenly lit with a spark of—something—Hecate would call it “mischief” if it weren’t so serious a situation.

“Miss Pentangle? Is…everything alright?”

It wasn’t, Hecate knew. Nothing had been right at the company since Mr. Pentangle died, and Hecate remembers the young, brown-eyed girl dressed in black (such a strange color on Pippa, a wrong color, as if her pink wardrobe were part of her very being) who inherited exactly the wrong kind of position.

Hecate could relate to that, at least.

“No, but it will be, thanks to you,” and Pippa was moving towards her, with a kind of jaunty swagger, as if this were all a game, but Hecate was never given the instructions.

Pippa was close now, too close. “Miss—”

“It’s alright. It’s high time we did away with this silly charade.”

_Charade?_

When Pippa wrapped her arm around Hecate’s waist, and pulled their bodies close until there was no space between, Hecate truly thought she was in wide-awake withdrawal. Hallucinations were a common symptom when one had abused the potion as much as Hecate had recently. Magical drug addiction was dangerous, was deadly, and she knew better. She should have tried to ween herself off it rather than plan to pass out tonight from pure exhaustion.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hellibore looked like two witches embracing was a sign of the apocalypse. It would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that Hecate felt like she had stepped through the looking glass.

“We’re getting married.”

Those words didn’t register in Hecate’s mind. It was like her brain had put up a protective wall against reality.

“This is no time for games, Pippa,” Hellibore sputtered, gawping at them, openmouthed. Hecate wished he would stop staring. She wished she could have a moment alone to process whatever the hell was going on.

“This is no game,” said Pippa. “We’re engaged.”

Hecate, finally deciding that this was not, in fact, a hallucination, said, "We are?"

“We are.” Pippa squeezed Hecate’s hip again, signaling her to play along, her eyes pleading. “I know you wanted to keep it a secret, but there’s no use hiding it. Love is love.”

“But she’s your secretary!” spat Hellibore, as if this were a particularly heinous thing.

“It wouldn’t be the first time one of us fell for our secretary, would it, Egbert?”

Pippa was dangerous like that. For all her show of air-headedness, she was observant. She knew things about people that she was never supposed to be privy to. While putting on a child-like persona of foolishness, she gathered information. Hecate had watched her do it for fifteen years, and it was impressive, if terrifying, when Pippa weaponized the information.

“How dare you?!” Hellibore’s face was an amusing shade of red.

“I think we’re done here, Egbert,” said Pippa airily, as if she hadn’t just accused the C.E.O. of cheating on his wife. Hecate tried to move away, but Pippa’s arm was firm around her, holding her in place. She was much stronger than she looked.

“We’re not.” Hellibore seemed larger somehow, more imposing in his fury. “You still have to make it _legal_ , or you _are_ being deported. I will put you on a broom to France myself if this isn’t sorted out by Monday.”

“That’s not a problem,” said Pippa, and Hecate almost interrupted then, but Pippa sensed it, and bulldozed on. “We’ll head to the immigration office right away.”

Pippa let her go, motioning to leave, so Hecate took a few steps away in a daze, but Hellibore’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Miss Hardbroom?”

“Yes…sir?” said Hecate, only just remembering to call him “sir,” though he certainly didn’t deserve her respect.

“You realize I will be informing the Duke of this development?”

Hecate’s heart stopped. Well-and-truly stopped.

“I…I would prefer to tell him myself, Mr. Hellibore.”

“I’m sure you would, Miss Hardbroom. But you see, something tells me that a trip to the immigration office would be a waste of time. The Duke would not allow the union, for purposes of—”

“I am aware of his opinion on the matter,” Hecate said, a little too fiercely, and she could feel Pippa’s eyes burning into her, and really, this was all too much. “I think it would be a mistake for you to contact the Duke.”

Hellibore’s eyebrows had disappeared behind the brim of his hat. “And why is that?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. If she still had a job after this, she’d be surprised. “You see, he doesn’t like you very much, and he would believe it was slander before he would believe it was true.”

With that, she transferred away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, there is a magical version of The Queen, so as to have a magical peerage. The Witch's Council is the equivalent of parliament, while The High Witch (aka The Queen) is actually a proper monarch.


	4. The Visa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate is living in her own personal nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied past abuse, mild violence.
> 
> For those wondering if this was going to be all romance and comedy, I'm afraid Mistress Broomhead is here to prove you wrong.
> 
> Also, Caithness, Scotland is ridiculously far away from London.

Pippa eventually found Hecate in the bathroom, knuckles white where they gripped the sink. Her whole body was shaking. When this was all over, Pippa really needed to talk to Hecate about those little bottles she kept in her purse.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Hecate said quietly, her reflection ghoulish in the mirror.

“I’m being deported,” Pippa supplied, as if that explained everything.

“So, naturally, I would have to _marry_ you?” Hecate pushed herself bodily away from the sink. Her eyes were a bit wild. Pippa was almost sorry to have put that look of panic on her face. Almost.

“Why not? Were you saving yourself for someone special?” Pippa knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment it came out of her mouth, but impulse control was never her strong suit.

Hecate crossed her arms. “I would like to think so, yes. Not to mention it’s _illegal_.”

“Not in England, it’s not. Same-sex marriage was legalized four years ago.”

Hecate pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and pointer finger. “You _know_ that’s not what I meant. It’s illegal to marry someone to avoid being deported.”

“That rule is meant to weed out terrorists, not book editors.”

“Pippa,” said Hecate, foregoing formality in light of the seriousness of her words, “I am _not_ going to marry you.”

“You are, because I’m the only one standing between you and a pink slip from His Lordship, Helli-boring. Do you really want to flush a twenty-year career down the toilet? We don’t have to stay married. After the required amount of time we’ll get a quick, painless divorce and be done with it,” said Pippa, placing her hands on her hips. “And what did he mean about telling ‘the Duke?’ Which Duke? Why would some stuffy old royal get in the way of our marriage?”

Hecate’s face really was a startling shade of white. She had always been pale, but her skin was practically _bleached_ at this point. She started to pace, looking for all the world like a trapped animal. “You have no idea—you have _no idea_ what you’ve done, Pippa. I _can’t_ marry you.”

“Why?” A realization hit Pippa like a witchball to the stomach. “Wait, are you already married? Why wouldn’t you have said something before now?!”

“No, no,” said Hecate, pulling at a long piece of hair that had come loose from her customary bun. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Well, then, whatever it is, as long as it’s not a legal reason, it’ll have to wait until after we go to the immigration office. We need that paperwork approved _now_.”

As if that settled things, she snapped her fingers, and transferred them directly to the office of Magical Immigration and Relocation.

Hecate’s protest died on her lips as she righted herself from the unexpected transfer. Pippa was already on her way to the counter, pushing aside people who were waiting in line to get to the window.

* * *

“I have a horrible feeling about this, Pippa,” said Hecate, pacing around the cramped office where they had been told to wait.

“Oh, hush, Hecate. You worry too much.” Pippa was picking up random papers from the desk in front of her and flipping through them like they were a gossip magazine. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“That was just what _I_ was going to suggest, Miss Pentangle, thank you.”

_No._

Hecate would know that voice anywhere, and it had come from directly behind her. As if she thought this situation couldn’t get any worse, the universe had decided to prove her terribly, terribly wrong.

“Mrs. Broomhead?” Hecate hated the way her voice sounded small, sounded _weak_ , like a young girl’s. Like her former self.

Mrs. Britta Broomhead was as tall as she was severe, with a gray bun of hair tied tightly at the top of her head. _Just like Hecate_ , Pippa thought. She wore a black dress made of a very thick fabric. Her face was not one from which one expected smiles, or laughter, or approval.

“Hecate Hardbroom.” Mrs. Broomhead placed a hand on Hecate’s shoulder, and Pippa watched in mild alarm as Hecate flinched away.

Mrs. Broomhead’s eyes shifted to her, and she made a strange face as she said, “Pippa Pentangle,” as if Pippa’s name tasted like sulfur on the tongue. She moved away from Hecate and went to sit at her desk.

“Now, as you are aware, I am the Head of Magical Immigration and Relocation—”

“How is that possible?” interrupted Hecate, and Pippa was concerned at how this meeting seemed to have gone off the rails before it had even begun.

“I wasn’t meant to stay a tutor forever, Miss Hardbroom. There is such a thing as upward mobility among the hoi polloi, you know,” Mrs. Broomhead’s eyes narrowed, and Hecate seemed to shrink beneath her stare. “But, as I hear it, you yourself have been counted among the working class for quite some time now. How disappointing. All those lessons on international politics and magical tradition gone to waste.”

“What is she talking about, Hecate?” asked Pippa, who suddenly felt quite in over her head, but Hecate wasn’t looking at her.

“Please, Miss Hardbroom, take a seat.”

“I’d rather stand,” said Hecate, and Pippa found this very peculiar. Typically, Hecate was not this willfully contrary. She really chose a poor time to rebel against authority.

“It was not a request, Hecate.”

Mrs. Broomhead’s magic lashed out across the room like a physical whip. It curled around Hecate’s waist and dragged her into the chair beside Pippa. Hecate made a brief sound of pain, but didn’t fight the magic, almost as if she had been expecting it. Pippa was thoroughly horrified by the spectacle.

“How dare you—” started Pippa, but she was quickly interrupted.

“Miss Pentangle, as I understand it, you have filed for a fiancé visa.” Mrs. Broomhead had moved on, as if this casual display of violence had never happened, and they were simply having a polite conversation over tea. Pippa knew that she should be paying attention, that this was serious, but she was distracted by the way Hecate, Miss-Perfect-Posture even on her worst days, was sitting slightly hunched, her arms wrapped around her waist, as if she were still in pain. Had the damnable woman _hexed_ Hecate? What kind of magic was lingering over her? But Broomhead was still talking, and Pippa really couldn’t afford to ignore her.

“Are you telling me that you have never discussed Miss Hardbroom’s heritage and what that would mean for you?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand the question. What _would_ it mean for me?”

Pippa looked at Hecate for answers, but she was staring determinedly at the floor, breathing a bit harder than was strictly normal, and she was shaking again. It was very slight, hardly noticeable unless you were looking for it, but Pippa, quite unexpectedly, felt an intense urge to reach out and soothe her. If only this vile woman wasn’t eyeing them both like they were potions experiments.

“Ultimately, nothing at all,” mused Mrs. Broomhead, “because I don’t intend to approve your visa.”

“What? On what grounds? You can’t do that!”  

“I think you will find that I can, Miss Pentangle.” Mrs. Broomhead had a nasty glint in her eyes. “I am, after all, the head of this office.”

“But _why_?”

“I am under the distinct impression that you are committing fraud to avoid being deported.”

“Who told you that?” said Pippa nervously, looking to Hecate again, but her eyes were now focused somewhere above Mrs. Broomhead’s right shoulder.

“I’ve just had a call from a Mr. Egbert Hellibore, who was quite insistent that you two intend to commit a crime.”

“Oh, Egbert is so old-fashioned. He just doesn’t like the idea of two women being in love,” Pippa said casually, as if his bigotry were just a minor inconvenience.

Mrs. Broomhead looked anything but convinced. “Be that as it may, you will still have to go through the interview process. You will be put in separate rooms and asked questions that a real engaged couple would know about each other. Then I will go through all of your messages, interview your coworkers, your family members, anyone I think would have information about whether or not your engagement is legitimate. If any of the answers shed even a shadow of doubt, you, Miss Pentangle, will be deported indefinitely, and you, Miss Hardbroom—” Mrs. Broomhead made a point to wait until Hecate met her eyes, but she never did, so she commanded, “ _Hecate Hardbroom_! Look at me when I am speaking to you.”

Hecate was shocked out of her stupor. She swallowed dryly and curled her trembling hands into fists before looking up. “Yes, Mrs. Broomhead. I am listening.”

“Good. You will face a heavy fine and a significant amount of time in prison, at Her Majesty’s pleasure. The Crown frowns upon,” Broomhead paused for a moment, eyes flickering between the two witches, “this sort of thing, as you well know.”

“This sort of thing?” Hecate repeated. It seemed as though the fight had not yet gone completely out of her. “Are you referring to being gay, or your misguided belief that our engagement is false?"

“Do not test my patience, girl.”

Pippa couldn’t remember a time where she felt more uncomfortable. It was only upon being forced into the presence of this horrid woman that she realized just how severe the consequences would be, and they already had the odds stacked against them, for reasons unknown to Pippa but apparently known to Hecate. Yet, Hecate _had_ just lied straight to Mrs. Broomhead’s frightful face, in clear support of Pippa’s folly.

There was no going back, now that Hecate had showed her hand, even if it was a bluff.

“Have you informed your families about the engagement?”

That was an easy question for Pippa. “Not possible: both my parents are dead. No siblings, either.”

Mrs. Broomhead wasn’t paying attention to her, however. Her focus was entirely on Hecate.

“And you, Hecate?”

Pippa could see that Hecate was lost for words, so she stepped in.

“We were planning on telling them this weekend. We wanted it to be a surprise!”

“So,” said Broomhead, “you’re going all the way home…for the weekend? With your…fiancé?”

Hecate remained silent.

“Yes,” said Pippa. “We’re flying to—well, why am I doing all the talking? Hecate, dear, tell her—”

“We’re flying to Caithness,” said Hecate, her voice strained.

“Yes, Caithness,” said Pippa, trying to remember what part of England that was, and if she had ever been there before.

“Scotland,” added Hecate, finally looking at Pippa.

“Scotland?” Pippa squeaked, but recovered quickly. “You see, I’m just very excited, because I’ve always wanted to go there!”

“I’m sure,” said Broomhead dryly. “I will be checking in with you at some point, to see how matters are progressing. On Monday we will have our interviews. See that you are prepared for them. One misstep, and I will see you both are punished to the full extent of the law."

Pippa took that for the dismissal it was and made to stand. Hecate did the same but was stopped in her tracks on the way to the door, quite suddenly, as if by magic. 

“Hecate, give my regards to His Grace for me, will you? It’s been far too long since I’ve seen your father.”


	5. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa never would’ve imagined Hecate to be a romantic, but then, she never would’ve imagined her to be a royal, either.

Hecate had intended to transfer directly home as she walked out of the immigration office, but Pippa grabbed her arm. Hecate flinched so badly that Pippa jumped away, letting go as she did.  

“What was all that about? How do you know that wretched woman?” said Pippa urgently.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What did she _do_ to—?”

“I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk.” Hecate ground out.

“But she used _magic_ on you—!”

“Pippa, has being threatened with deportation affected your comprehension of the English language? I can say it in French, if you’d prefer? _Je ne veux pas parler!”_

When Hecate spoke French her voice was deeper, richer, and it sent a shiver down Pippa’s spine. It didn’t matter that it was meant to insult her; it was sexy as hell. But where had that thought come from? There were a lot more pressing matters to be taken care of, and Hecate would probably strike her down where she stood if she had known where Pippa’s thoughts had strayed.

But Hecate had also never been so rude to Pippa’s face in all the time that she’d known her, and they’d had their fair share of disagreements over the past fifteen years. Pippa knew that it was that Broomhead woman who had twisted Hecate into this terrible state, but it was still shocking to see.

“I won’t apologize for being worried about…whatever just happened in there. It’s called compassion. You know, a human emotion? You should try it some time.”

Hecate looked around. A dirty street in the middle of London was not where she wanted to have this conversation. Nonmagical cars, buses, and bicycles added to the cacophony of sound around them as busy tourists and locals alike rushed along with their lives. Hecate looked back at the magical immigration office only to see a sophisticated glamour spell that hid it behind the image of an abandoned building. The sign on the door read: THIS PROPERTY IS CONDEMNED.  

Hecate felt as if her senses were overloaded. Broomhead always had a way of making her feel like she wasn’t right in her own skin, like at any moment her soul would lift right out of her body just to get away from it all.

Pippa, clearly, was suffering from no such thing. “So, anyway, we fly to Scotland, say hello to your mum and dad—who by the way, you could have mentioned at some point in the last _fifteen years_ were ‘the Duke and Duchess of Scottish Nowhere,’—tell them we’re engaged, learn everything there is to know about each other, ace the interview, get married, then divorced, and we’re in the clear!”  

Hecate was stunned. “Were you not listening in there? I could go to _jail_ for doing this!”

“You knew it was illegal when you agreed to do it!”

“I never _agreed_ to anything. I said ‘no’ and then you transported us to the immigration office, without my consent!”

“Then why did you tell Broomhead that she was wrong about our engagement being fake?”

Hecate pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Not only did she have a blinding headache, but her stomach was starting to pitch and roll. It wouldn’t do to lose her meagre lunch all over the pavement. “Because I realized that no matter _what_ I said she was still going to tell my father, and Hellibore is going to tell him, and either I help you, and the hell is worth it, or I don’t, and I go through it all over again for no reason!”

Pippa was shocked into silence for a moment, but it didn’t last long. “What do you mean ‘all over again?’”

Hecate dropped her hands, which meant Pippa’s view was unobstructed when something akin to panic or loss or fear flashed across her eyes, but only for a second before being replaced by a blank stare.  

“I don’t mean anything. All I’m saying is, I’m risking _everything_ here. This changes things.”

“How?”

“You’re going to promote me to Chief Editor.”

“I am?” said Pippa, thinking this was some kind of joke. Sure, Hecate had the experience, and sure, her assistant had basically been the acting editor ever since Pippa’s mother had followed her father into a double grave and Pippa had days and months where she couldn’t even get herself out of bed, let alone force herself to care about the company, but still. She thought they had a good system. Pippa was able to mediate Hecate’s harshness when it came to criticism. Pippa’s charm kept the authors that their company had built a long relationship with from knowing the real reason certain words were changed and chapters cut altogether. Perhaps they could be Co-Editors, that might be a compromise she could get behind—

“And you’re going to publish my manuscript,” Hecate said firmly, with an air of regal finality, of _my word_ _is law_ , that had Pippa blinking in surprise, wondering how she had never noticed the way that Hecate carried herself, the way she spoke—it reeked of noble bearing.

“That potion book? Really?” Pippa didn’t know why it was so important to Hecate. It was basically a glorified textbook. It was well written, sure, and had pretty pictures that she strongly suspected were sketched by Hecate herself, but she didn’t think Hecate understood how difficult it was to sell a new textbook when the standard Potions book had been used in classrooms for decades.

“Yes, really.”

“Is that all?”

“No. We tell my family about our engagement when and _how_ I decide to do it—”

“Okay, okay, deal.” Pippa didn’t think she really had a choice, if she wanted to stay in the country. She would’ve given Hecate the blouse off her back if she had asked, though she never would, because it was far too pink for her tastes.

“Now,” Hecate paused for a moment, and for the first time since being summoned to Pippa’s office, she smiled. It was a small one, a weak one, but a smile all the same. “Ask me nicely.”

“What?” 

Hecate moved a little closer. “Ask me nicely… to marry you.”

“I never would’ve pegged you for a romantic.” Pippa refrained from remarking on what she _had_ pegged her for. “Will you marry me?”

“No,” said Hecate, eyes dancing. “Properly. On your knee. Like you mean it.”

Pippa’s eyes went wide, but she decided it was only fair. If only she weren’t wearing such a tight, expensive skirt.

Hecate offered a hand to steady Pippa as she knelt to the ground. How chivalrous.

“Oh Hecate,” said Pippa, her voice saccharine and positively dripping with mock-gallantry.

“Yes?”

“Dear, _sweet_ Hecate.”

“I’m listening.”

Pippa batted her eyelashes and smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Pretty, pretty please, with sprinkles on top, will you marry me?”

Hecate rolled her eyes. “I will. But I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”

Pippa tried to get back up on her own but found that she couldn’t. “Would you lend me a hand, My Lady?”

Hecate’s eyes darkened. “Don’t call me that.”  

Despite the harshness of her tone, she still helped Pippa up.  

“You know, my brain has been hard at work trying to remember a time when someone has referred to you by your title, and it’s come up blank. Hellibore clearly knew, but he certainly never treated you like a royal. And that absolute monster in there,” Pippa threw her thumb over her shoulder to point to the immigration office that was now nowhere to be seen, “clearly knew you when you were young, but she didn’t refer to you as your Lady-ship or Your Grace or anything. But if your father is a Duke, that makes you _Lady_ Hecate.”

“Does it?” said Hecate strangely, her face an absolute mask, unreadable, and Pippa truly couldn’t tell what she meant by the way she said it. Hecate was getting more and more mysterious by the minute. But she wouldn’t push. It had been a day of pushing, and Pippa was tired.

“So… _Scotland?_ But I thought…isn’t your mum…?”

“Spanish? Yes. But she grew up in the Highlands, as did my father.”

“You never told me you were from Scotland.”

“You never asked.”

“You don’t sound Scottish.”

“ _You_ don’t sound French.”

“Touché,” said Pippa, throwing up her hands in defeat.  

They walked in silence for a little while down the street, both unwilling to be the first one to transport away.  

“We should probably get rings. You know, to make it look official?” said Pippa, glancing sideways at Hecate, who had a pensive air about her.

“I already have…a pair…if you would like to use them?”

Pippa stopped in her tracks. “You…have a pair of engagement rings? Just…lying around?”

Hecate’s face twisted into something terrible and painful. “I do.”

Pippa wanted to know everything and nothing.  

“Well…if you’re sure?”

Hecate seemed lost for a moment, like something precious had slipped away, but she appeared sincere when she eventually said, “I am.”

Pippa wondered if that was a teardrop she spotted in the corner of Hecate’s eye, but before she could look closer, Hecate had reached her limit and turned away.

“Meet me at St. James’ Park, at dawn, with your broomstick. It’s a long flight.”

And she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hecate can speak French because of course she can. That’s what a private, expensive education is for, isn’t it?
> 
> This story is going to be a not-so-delicate balance of romance, comedy, and angst. It’s best to be prepared.


	6. The Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa wasn't a fan of rising at dawn. It would appear that neither was Hecate, since she was late. What could be keeping her?

Pippa wasn’t a fan of rising at dawn. She wasn’t even sure it was within her ability. But seeing as the flight to Caithness would take nearly the whole day, it made sense to start the journey as early as possible. Knowing herself, and her flying, they would also be required to make multiple stops, and Pippa had a feeling Hecate would not be at her most patient today.

Pippa sent a message to the office saying that she and Hecate wouldn’t be coming in to work on this lovely Friday, because the Scottish Highlands were calling to them. It was not, in fact, the strangest excuse she had ever provided for skipping out on a day’s work.

She knew Dimity Drill would have a field day. There was no doubt that everyone at _Pentangle’s Publications_ would know that the two of them were engaged and flying to Scotland for Pippa to “meet the parents” before they even finished their morning cup of coffee. The only people they’d told so far were Hellibore and Broomhead, so naturally, less than twelve hours later, the news would be practically public knowledge.

Pippa searched the sky for Hecate, wondering if she would be arriving by broom or transfer. She took in the sunrise, which was an average one at best. The sky was overcast and Pippa worried that it would make for an unpleasant start to their journey. She had arrived at St. James’ Park, at precisely the crack of dawn, as promised, with broom in hand and an enchanted suitcase that contained far more clothes than were strictly necessary for three days. It was always best to be prepared for anything, in Pippa’s experience.

But where was Hecate? It was unlike her to be late. Pippa was starting to worry that she might have gotten cold feet.

No sooner did that thought form in her mind than Hecate appeared beside her, sporting a long black cloak and a very grim expression.

“I thought I was the one who hated early mornings, but that look on your face tells me otherwise,” Pippa teased, despite knowing better than to ruffle Hecate’s feathers right before a long journey.

Hecate sighed, a deep, heavy thing. Pippa wondered if Hecate had even tried to sleep last night, or if she had just taken a potion to stay up. It was really none of her business, but she found herself more and more interested in the day-to-day personal life of her assistant.

“Is something wrong? It’s not like you to be late.”

Hecate frowned. “If you must know, I just finished mirroring my mother to warn her of our arrival.”

_“Warn?”_

Hecate’s eyes clouded over before she looked away from Pippa, towards the sky, with an irritated expression, as if the bad weather had personally offended her in some way. When her gaze returned, Pippa was struck by how dark Hecate’s eyes were. They were the kind of eyes you could never quite see into, as if they were too deep of a well, and you could only lean so far over the edge to get a better look.

“She... My mother...isn’t well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Hecate nodded, accepting the platitude with as much grace as she could manage.

Pippa eyed the sunrise. “I’m surprised your mother would be awake at this hour.”

Hecate fiddled with the clasp of her robe, wondering whether it was the proper moment to reveal the information that would answer Pippa’s unasked question. Very soon she would discover her mother’s…situation. It seemed silly to hide, yet Hecate struggled to find the words. It was a private matter, but nothing could be private when they needed to learn everything there was to know about one another by Monday. Hecate shuddered to think of having an interview with Mrs. Broomhead, and decided that for this weekend only, she would _not_ err on the side of caution, and instead be as brave and open as her sanity could allow. Within reason.

“The medication my mother takes causes insomnia. She’s tried all kinds of potions but ultimately, she prefers the ones that keep her awake to the others, whose side effects can be far more…unpleasant. I keep doing research to try and find a better option for her, but it may come as no surprise to you that my mother is rather stubborn, and she’s stopped listening to my suggestions.”

Pippa didn’t know what to say. She vaguely remembered a time at the office when Hecate asked after Mrs. Pentangle’s health, quite out of the blue, when it became public knowledge that Pippa was about to lose her mother. Hecate had suggested a few natural remedies and potions that might help ease the pain of Mrs. Pentangle’s last weeks, but Pippa had brushed her off rather casually. At the time, she had thought it was ridiculous that Hecate would assume Mrs. Pentangle’s doctors weren’t already doing everything they could to make her comfortable.

When Pippa didn’t respond, Hecate looked around nervously. Had she said too much? None of it was Pippa’s business. It had been her own private struggle for so long, trying to find ways to help her mother, and it felt odd to have it out in the open. “I am sorry for being late. I felt I had to mirror her before we left. I worried that...showing up unexpectedly...would put too much of a strain on her health.”

Pippa’s face fell. This was certainly not the news she was expecting. She would’ve much preferred to discover that Hecate had foregone the Wide-Awake Potion and simply overslept.

“She’s…that far gone, is she?”

“Yes.” Hecate sucked in a breath. “Though, I’m sure the shock of us being there will pale in comparison to the announcement of our engagement.”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

Hecate scoffed and commanded her broom to rise. “As I’ve said, I’m going to face a storm whether I help you or not. I just wish I didn’t have to hurt her in the process.”

Pippa eyed Hecate’s hovering broom with indecision. “And your father?”

“I’d rather not think about him. Oh,” said Hecate, digging into her robes to produce a beautiful velvet box. “I did, however, do a lot of thinking last night...and I think it’s best, for everyone involved, that we arrive wearing them. My father will not hesitate to use even the smallest detail to dismiss us and our...relationship.”

Pippa stared at the box. She had so many questions, but she had a feeling the answers would be too much to bear. Later, perhaps. When they didn’t have such a long journey ahead of them, she could find a tactful way to bring up the subject.

Hecate opened it up to reveal two breathtaking engagement rings. They were rose gold with a single, oval cut diamond. Pippa was speechless, and had no idea whether she should reach out and take one, or if she should wait for Hecate to place it on her finger.

_How ridiculous_ , Pippa thought. _We’re not_ actually _engaged. Why ever would you think she’d “place it” on your finger!?_

Yet, Hecate was moving to take one out of the box. The dawn light glinted off it spectacularly.

Maybe it _was_ a beautiful sunrise, after all.

Hecate slowly took her left hand…

—and Pippa suddenly couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—

…and turned it over, so as to place the ring in the center of her palm.

The ring was cool to the touch, and heavier than Pippa expected it to be. She lifted it up, closer to eye level, and immediately regretted doing so.

Inside the ring, engraved in stunning, looping script, were the letters: _A.C._

Hecate picked her own ring out of the box, snapped it shut with authority, and placed the ring on her finger without delay, as if it were nothing but a prop.

Pippa wasn’t sure if she should ask, since she knew her curiosity on the subject was dangerous and had the potential to deeply hurt Hecate, but at the end of the day, in order to pass the interview on Monday, she would need to know. Long journey be damned, this seemed too important an elephant in the room to ignore.

Biting the bullet, she slipped the ring onto her finger and said, “Who is _A.C_.?”

Hecate’s reaction was even worse than she anticipated. Her broom, which had been obediently hovering, waiting for its mistress to mount it, went shooting off into the sky. Her right hand, which still held the ring box, dropped it as though it had caught fire. Hecate herself jumped back, only to catch her foot on the bottom of her robe, and her body went crashing towards the ground.

Pippa quickly transferred behind Hecate to try and catch her, but she didn’t calculate the distance correctly, and wound up much too close. Both of them went tumbling down into the grass, with all of Hecate’s weight landing on top of Pippa.

“I’m so sorry—” started Pippa.

“Forgive me, I—” began Hecate, who was scrambling to collect herself, moving off of Pippa as soon as she realized what had cushioned her fall.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t have to tell me,” gasped Pippa, remaining on the ground. Hecate had knocked the wind right out of her lungs. Pippa gazed up into the sky, wondering how her life had gone so completely sideways in less than twenty-four hours. “Not yet, at least. When you’re ready.”

Hecate called to her broom, which came soaring back through the sky to hover at her waist once more. “I didn’t realize—that is—I forgot that the rings were engraved. If it makes you uncomfortable—”

Pippa closed her eyes. “It doesn’t. Not _uncomfortable_. Just...”

_Sad_ , she thought but didn’t dare say. Hecate wouldn’t abide pity. And it wasn’t pity, not exactly, just a hollow, solemn feeling, one that got more and more intense as Pippa imagined Hecate, perhaps a much younger, _happier_ Hecate, with a bright smile and open heart, offering a ring to this _A.C_. and being rejected, or...worse. Pippa was too scared to think about other reasons why this ring wouldn’t be with its intended owner.

Hecate picked up the fallen ring box, and used magic to vanish the dirt that had marred its surface. She looked to Pippa, who was still lying on the ground with her eyes closed.  “We really should get flying. It’s a long flight in the best conditions, and I don’t like the look of that sky.”

Pippa pulled herself up to a sitting position, groaning as she did. “Couldn’t we transfer part of the way?”

Hecate’s eyes narrowed. “That’s far too dangerous, and well you know it. Transferring to locations you’ve never physically inhabited is—”

“Stupid and reckless behavior?”

“I was going to say suicidal, but you’ve captured the bare minimum of my point.”

Pippa stood up, brushing the dirt off her traveling cloak. “But _you_ could just transfer _me_ with you. We could fly halfway there and then transfer to Caithness. That would cut at least seven hours off our journey.”

Hecate was completely baffled by this suggestion. Did Pippa think she was the High Witch? She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or horrified by Pippa’s complete lack of understanding of spell science. “You overestimate my magical reserves. I couldn’t possibly transfer myself and another person over 500 kilometers, even if I were to do it in multiple jumps.”

“Really?” Pippa wondered how difficult it was for Hecate to admit that sort of thing—that something was beyond her ability. Hecate never hesitated to use her magic; she transferred everywhere, even small distances that would be much easier to walk. Pippa had just assumed that she had too much magic to know what to do with, and needed to expend it as frequently as possible to prevent a build up inside of her. She had heard horror stories of powerful witches whose magic became uncontrollable when it was bottled up for too long inside them. From the way Hecate seemed incapable of going even an hour without doing magic, Pippa had put Hecate down as one of those witches.

“Yes, really,” Hecate admitted, and Pippa was struck by how tired she sounded, as if just speaking with Pippa was draining her energy.

“Well, then, onward and upward, I suppose,” said Pippa, commanding her broom to hover and mounting it gracefully. “Lead the way, Your Royal Highness.”

Hecate glared at Pippa as she rose into the sky. “That’s not even—you _know_ that’s not even the correct—?”

“You said I couldn’t call you ‘My Lady.’ So, I’m improvising. It’s like a term of endearment.”

“Titles are _not_ terms of endearment. If you’re going to survive meeting my father, you’ll listen to me and understand how serious—”

“Alright, alright, I’ll cool it with the pet names,” said Pippa, pulling up way too close beside Hecate’s broom so as to deliver a final, cheeky: “Your Majesty.”

With that, Pippa increased her speed so that Hecate’s indignant, “Pippa, I swear to the Goddess—!” was lost in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Hecate Hardbroom. What did she ever do to deserve all this? 
> 
> The distance from St. James' Park to Caithness is 660 miles, or about 1,062 kilometers. Now, I have never taken a spell science class, but I imagine transferring two people even half that distance is dangerous, to say the least.


	7. The Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With only two hours left of their journey, Pippa and Hecate are forced to take shelter in a tearoom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of past harassment and the magical equivalent of being roofied, a la Miss Softbroom.
> 
> A "gunfire" is a cup of black tea mixed with a shot of rum.

Most of the flight was marked by silence, with occasional directions called out across the wind by Hecate. They stopped every four hours to take a brief break. Riding side-saddle on a broomstick was uncomfortable at best, and torturous at worst, but Pippa was trying to keep her complaints to a minimum.

That is, until the heavens opened up, and the two witches were drenched down to the bone.

“I can’t see a bloody thing through all this rain!” shouted Pippa, swiping angrily at the water bombarding her face, her hat clearly no match to stop it all from going directly into her eyes and mouth.

“I suppose we have no choice but to stop.”

“You _suppose_?” said Pippa, alighting from her broomstick in front of the teashop where Hecate had suggested they take shelter.

Hecate glared as Pippa chivalrously opened the door for her. “After you, _Your Grace_ —”

“Pippa, I know you see this all as some variety of joke, but you will have to listen to me at some point in order for our ‘engagement’ to be believable,” said Hecate as she stormed through the door and made her way to a table close to the fire. She leaned her broomstick against the back wall, along with her suitcase. The tearoom was nearly empty, though it was clear that the other inhabitants had taken refuge for the same reasons they did. Dripping cloaks were hung over the backs of chairs, while an eclectic collection of pointed hats had been hung on the mantle hooks over the fireplace.

“What could be more believable than my sincere deference to your noble birth?” said Pippa sarcastically as she took Hecate’s black hat from her and hung it beside her own pink one.

“First of all, there are things about ‘my noble birth’ that complicate matters of address, and if you weren’t so busy making a show of your lack of knowledge of proper—”

 “Welcome, Ladies!” said Mrs. Cosie, the owner of the tearoom, who had appeared quite out of nowhere, without the use of a transference spell. She was a matronly woman, with a kind face and a flowered apron wrapped around her waist. “Can I get you something to warm you up? You two look like you’re in need of a good, strong cuppa!”

“Yes, please!” said Pippa, taking a menu from Mrs. Cosie with palpable glee. Hecate envied her emotional openness. Pippa never seemed to have to hide anything from anyone. Her pink clothes clung to her body where the rain had soaked them through, and she only glanced at the menu for a moment before making her decision.

“I’ll have the _Prince of Wales_ tea blend, please,” said Pippa, smiling and winking at Hecate.

Was Pippa mocking her, even now? Hecate was sick and tired of being taunted.

“What about you, dear?” said Mrs. Cosie, whose warm smile turned to a frown of concern when she realized the tension radiating off the dark-haired woman.

“Have you anything stronger than tea?” said Hecate, not even bothering to look at the menu.

The tea mistress looked quite taken aback for a moment, as if she had never gotten a request of that nature before. Pippa almost stepped in with a quick, “She’s only joking!” but Mrs. Cosie recovered before she had a chance.

“I could manage some gunfire, if that’ll do?”

“It would.”

Mrs. Cosie nodded thoughtfully, collected the menus, and stepped away.

Pippa stared at Hecate as if she had lost her mind.

“We still have two more hours of flying to do!”

“I’m not going to get drunk from a bit of rum in my tea.” Hecate drawled, taking the napkin from her place setting and shaking it out of its fancily folded, swan-like form.

“Hecate Hardbroom, drinking and flying. I would never have believed it!”

Hecate’s eyes shot to the other guests of the establishment, searching for anyone who may have overheard Pippa’s words.

“ _Will you please_ lower your voice? I am doing no such thing. Who knows how long we will be here, waiting out the storm? I assure you, I will still be fully capable of flying safely.” Hecate placed the napkin on her lap and pressed her palms on top of the soft cloth. With nothing left to do to occupy her hands, it was hard to keep them still.

Pippa did lower her voice, but absolutely refused to let the subject drop. It was too great an opportunity to pass up. “I’ve seen you tipsy before. You couldn’t keep your feet under you, let alone a broom in the air.”

“That is a gross exaggeration, not that I believe you’ve ever truly seen me tipsy.”

“Oh yes, I have. At the company Samhain celebration, seven years ago, you got so drunk off witch’s brew, you danced with every single lady in sight with a rose between your teeth.”

“I’m quite certain that wasn’t me.” Hecate’s pale face flushed prettily, and Pippa was distracted by the way wisps of her wet hair had fallen out of her bun to caress her cheeks. She made a note to try and make Hecate blush more often.

Pippa pressed on, lest she get _too_ distracted. “You also hexed Hellibore and told him that if he ever touched you again you’d turn him into a rat so he could live in the gutter along with his mind.”

Mortification settled in Hecate’s stomach. She shuddered to think of what Hellibore must’ve done to prompt her to take such extreme action, and was more than a little anxious to discover that she had no recollection of it at all. She had suspected that someone tampered with her drink, which was why she experienced such large gaps in memory, but it was disconcerting to have those gaps filled in by Pippa.

“I did _not_ say that.”

“You did,” Pippa insisted, though she worried she might’ve made a mistake by bringing that particular instance up. It wasn’t the sort of thing she wanted Hecate to dwell on, not if she didn’t even know it had happened in the first place.

Pippa only knew about it herself because Dimity Drill, who had watched the whole thing happen with mild awe, had told anyone and everyone that Hellibore had got what was coming to him, that Hecate was her hero, and that she didn’t think Helli-boring would make any trouble about it, because any investigation into the incident would prove Hecate was acting in self-defense. Dimity was also the one to make sure Hecate got home safely, once it became clear that she was in rare form. Pippa herself was too busy seducing a very willing new marketing intern to have noticed anything besides the fact that Hecate was a very talented dancer, and that she had very long, beautiful hair that she wished her assistant would wear down more often.

Hecate took a deep breath and held it for eight counts before releasing it. “That was…a difficult night. I believe someone spiked my drink with some sort of illicit potion. I cannot be blamed for actions taken after being poisoned against my will.”

“Of course not,” agreed Pippa, wishing she had never brought it up in the first place. If Hecate wanted to drink, she could drink. She was an adult. She just wished Hecate didn’t feel the need to numb whatever it was that was going on inside her as they got closer to the inevitable confrontation with her parents.

Pippa’s eyes lit up as she saw Mrs. Cosie returning to them with tea and an impressive selection of cakes.

“Here you are, loves,” said Mrs. Cosie, placing the tea tray down on the table with a flourish. “Just what the doctor ordered!”

“Thank you,” Pippa practically squealed in delight. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast, as her stomach reminded her by growling audibly at the sight of such a delicious spread of confectionary bliss.

“You ladies traveling someplace special?” Mrs. Cosie eyed them and their brooms lined up next to each other against the wall.

“We are,” said Pippa.

“And where would that be?”

“Caithness,” supplied Hecate, taking a cautious sip of her “tea.” It was strong. Mrs. Cosie had a generous hand. Perhaps Pippa was right to be worried about her flying.

“That’s quite a trip!”

“Well, I’ve never met my fiancé’s parents, so we thought we’d finally take the trip, now that we’re engaged!” said Pippa, holding up her left hand to display her ring.

Hecate choked on her tea. Pippa banged on her back with an open palm, though this did little to help Hecate’s coughing fit.

“Congratulations! How wonderful!” said Mrs. Cosie, her face glowing with happiness for them. Pippa was struck by the realization that this was the first person they’d told who’d taken the news as a cause for celebration. “Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your tea!”

“Why,” croaked Hecate, once the woman was far enough away and she had sufficiently recovered, “would you ever feel the need to tell the owner of a tearoom that we’re engaged?”

“I was practicing! We need to practice our story, so that it seems as natural as possible when we tell it to your parents.”

“That doesn’t mean every stranger along the way needs to know our business!”

Pippa threw up her hands. “I didn’t think it was a secret! We’re wearing matching rings, after all.”

“Yes, we are,” said Hecate solemnly, “but that doesn’t mean I want every person in Scotland to know it.”

“Are you ashamed of me?” said Pippa, intending it to sound like a tease, like a throw-away joke, but from the way Hecate was looking at her oddly over her drink, she hadn’t succeeded.

“No.”

Pippa was embarrassed at how that single word had the power to lift her spirits.

“But I _am_ nervous that you will be too flippant in front of my father, and he will respond…poorly.”

“He can’t possibly be worse than that Broomhead woman. She made me feel like all the oxygen had been taken out of the room.”

Hecate took a large gulp of her “tea,” shuddering as it burned the back of her throat.

“You can decide for yourself when you meet him tonight.”

Pippa didn’t like the way Hecate’s face went completely blank. She could handle anger, she could handle fear, but what she couldn’t handle was this insurmountable silence and distance between them.

Perhaps Pippa should request something stronger in her tea, as well.


	8. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No. No way!”
> 
> “What?” said Hecate, flying somewhat closer than was strictly considered “safe” broomstick-work.
> 
> “You didn’t tell me your parents lived in a castle!”
> 
> Hecate sighed. For all of Pippa’s mocking fixation on her nobility, she utterly failed to grasp the practical implications of having a title. “Did you expect the Duke and Duchess to live in a hut?”

The rain lightened about an hour later, so Hecate and Pippa were off again. It was difficult flying, since the rain hadn’t completely stopped, and it was approaching 2100 hours, so the darkness of the sky was near-complete. This was why Pippa was ignorant of the true nature of their destination until it was quite literally beneath her broom.

“No. No way!”

“What?” said Hecate, flying somewhat closer than was strictly considered “safe” broomstick-work.

“You didn’t tell me your parents lived in a _castle_!”

Hecate sighed. For all of Pippa’s mocking fixation on her nobility, she utterly failed to grasp the practical implications of having a title. “Did you expect the Duke and Duchess to live in a hut?”

Pippa had never seen anything quite like it. It was just what you would imagine the perfect fairytale castle to be. The jutting towers, the stone turrets, the vast grounds, the gardens…

It was then that Pippa realized that they were definitely _not_ flying towards the castle’s entrance.

“Hecate, where are we going?”

“The rose garden.”

“Okay…” said Pippa, looking down as they passed over a particularly tall turret. “Why?”

Pippa couldn’t properly see Hecate’s face, but she imagined her moment of silence was accompanied by an expression that would’ve explained everything.

“I need to…prepare…for the night.”

What the _hell_ did that mean?

“So, we’re…sneaking in?” said Pippa as they drifted over the high wall that protected the garden.

“We are not ‘sneaking,’” said Hecate as she landed near an impressive array of Albertine roses. “This used to be my home. If I fancy a walk through the gardens first, I’m entitled.”

But Hecate wasn’t walking. She had taken her suitcase off the end of her broomstick and opened it on the ground. It wasn’t until Hecate started rummaging through her clothes that Pippa realized she intended to change.

“Umm…Hecate? What’re you…” said Pippa nervously. “What’re you doing?”

Hecate had taken out a particularly elaborate gown and held it up against her figure, as if to check if it would still fit. The rain had finally stopped, but moisture clung to the air like a memory, and Pippa felt as if she were captured in a dream. Suspended, really. She watched as Hecate removed another dress from her enchanted suitcase.

“This is for you,” said Hecate distractedly, handing the second gown over.

“What?”

“Put it on.”

“Why?”

Hecate had turned away. She waved her right hand, and suddenly her black traveling clothes were replaced by a burgundy evening gown. She then reached up into her hair and pulled a bobby pin out of the top of her chignon, allowing the bun to unravel slightly.

Pippa couldn’t help but stare.

“Hecate?”

Hecate turned, her hair coming loose even more at the motion. “Yes?”

“What’s going on?”

“You’re supposed to be changing.”

“But _why_?”

“Because fourteen hours of travel or not, my father will not stand for a sloppy appearance.”

Pippa was struck speechless. It didn’t help that Hecate was currently pulling at her hair, letting it tumble to her waist. It was wavy and luscious and the way she was combing her fingers through it was entirely too diverting.

_Focus,_ Pippa thought. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Hecate didn’t reply, just waved her hand in a practiced motion. Pippa squeaked as Hecate’s magic, cool and soft, raced over her skin. In an instant, Pippa’s pink cloak, trousers, and blouse were replaced by the blue evening gown she had held in her hands a moment earlier.

“You can’t just—” she protested, shocked that Hecate would use magic on her without permission.

“Pippa, I need you to listen to me,” said Hecate urgently, moving into her space and taking her hands. “Whatever my father says, or does, or orders, or curses—it won’t be your fault. _He_ will be entirely to blame, do you understand?”

Pippa could feel Hecate’s magic around them, twisting and turning in the air, as if expecting an attack from any direction, at any moment, and she finally understood, far too late, that this meeting might be _dangerous_.

Just hours earlier, Pippa was teasing Hecate about drinking the gunfire. Pippa knew it was the precise cocktail that non-magical soldiers drank before heading off into battle. Sometimes, that drink would prove to be their last. Sitting in a teashop, safe and warm, it was all so amusing to Pippa then, but it was deadly serious now.

What had she gotten them into?

“I understand.”

But Pippa really didn’t, she _knew_ she didn’t, not properly. Hecate Hardbroom, the woman who had worked at her side for fifteen years, had never once blinked in the face of hardship. She always rose to a challenge, any challenge, without reservation. They had worked with the wickedest kinds of people—politicians, businessmen, authors, and scoundrels alike—and Hecate had never once shied away from conflict. That she was being so careful to avoid even the smallest infraction in her father’s eyes was frankly disconcerting, because really, who was ever expected to arrive from a fourteen-hour flight on a broomstick in an evening gown?

“Good,” said Hecate, releasing Pippa’s hands and stepping away. Her face was startlingly white with remorse. “I’m sorry I changed your clothes without asking. I’m worried that we’ve tripped the security alarms and will be transferred at any moment into the Great Hall.”

“I wouldn’t worry, dear. Your mother sent me to collect you.”

Pippa jumped in surprise at the elderly witch who’d just appeared from around a hedge.

“Miss Bat!” said Hecate, and her face broke into a relieved smile that was beautiful to behold.

“Dear girl, come here and give this old hag a hug!”

Hecate rushed to embrace her, and Pippa was comforted to know that there was at least one good person whom Hecate loved within the castle.

Miss Bat’s arms wrapped around Hecate like a blanket, warming her to the core. Hecate didn’t realize how much she had missed her old nanny until now. She tightened her hold, closing her eyes, trying to remember what it felt like as a child to rush into Miss Bat’s arms and stay there for as long as she could. Hecate was always hiding behind Miss Bat’s skirts when she was small, but her nanny never seemed to mind, always welcomed her with gentle words and kind eyes.

“You’ve been away too long! I hardly recognize you as a grown woman,” said Miss Bat, holding Hecate at arm’s length once the embrace had come to an end. “Look how stunning you are!”

And she was. Stunning. Pippa couldn’t deny that, watching the line of Hecate’s spine straighten slightly beneath the rich burgundy fabric of her dress. Pippa found it hard to believe that Hecate’s father could ever find fault with her appearance, when she was so striking in such an effortless way.

“And this must be your lady friend.” Miss Bat smiled a knowing smile, and winked suggestively.

“Pippa, this is Miss Bat, my former nanny. She nurses my mother, now. And Miss Bat, this is Pippa Pentangle, my—” the rest of Hecate’s words caught in her throat, and Pippa wondered what they were.

“I know who she is, you silly girl!” said Miss Bat, but there was no bite to it, just good-natured teasing. “Come here, Miss Pentangle.”

Not one to disobey a nanny’s command without good reason, Pippa walked forward, unsure what to say—what _Hecate_ wanted her to say—but it turned out that words were unnecessary, nay, impossible, when one suddenly found one’s face buried in an old woman’s shoulder during an unexpectedly tight embrace.

“Well met and welcome, Miss Pentangle. We’ve been expecting you.”

Miss Bat released her, and Pippa stepped back in surprise.

“You have?”

“Oh yes. The Duchess has gone quite above and beyond in preparation for your arrival.”

“What?” said Hecate, her disbelief warring with her hope.

“She’s even organized a garden party and ball for tomorrow!”

Hecate groaned. “She didn’t—I told her not to!”

“Well, when you’re the Duchess, _you_ can be in charge of what does and doesn’t merit a celebration!”

“But what—” Hecate began nervously, “What exactly are we celebrating?”

“Your homecoming, of course!”

Hecate let out the breath she had been holding. “Do you know…do you know if anyone has been in touch with Father about…about the purpose of our visit?”

Miss Bat’s face fell. “Well, I’m not privy to the Duke’s personal communications, but I do know he’s been storming around the castle all day, swearing to anyone who would listen that there will be no celebration at all. But your mother insisted. There was really no stopping her from making the preparations, even in her condition, and your father couldn’t very well deny her when she—” Miss Bat let out a small cough, as if to clear her throat, “when it’s the first time in months—maybe years—that she’s…found the strength to be her old self again.”

Pippa watched Hecate carefully as she ran a shaking hand through her long, dark hair. “I…well, I just hope it isn’t too much for her.”

Miss Bat nodded. “You best come with me. I don’t like to leave her alone for very long, even with this new burst of energy. And I can’t very well trust His Grace to play nursemaid when he’s in one of his moods.”

Miss Bat waved a hand towards their bags and brooms. “I’ll just send those to your room. And you, my dear,” she held a wizened hand towards Pippa, “If you’ll just latch on, we’ll be on our way to the Great Hall.”

Pippa sent one last look towards Hecate, hoping to catch her eye before they transferred, but Hecate’s eyes were closed. In the split second before Miss Bat magicked them away, Pippa could’ve sworn she saw Hecate’s lips move, as if to whisper a spell, or a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, the castle that is featured in this story is based on a real one: The Castle of Mey. It's the northern-most castle in mainland Scotland, and it used to be owned by the late Queen Mother. 
> 
> Please leave a review, and let me know if you're enjoying the way the story is unfolding!


	9. The Duchess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Duchess was not quite what Pippa had been expecting.

“The Lady Hecate Hardbroom and Miss Philippa Pentangle,” a disembodied voice announced to a cavernous room with tall arches and candles floating overhead.

Hecate opened her eyes to find her mother sitting in the center of the hall, alone. While it was a relief to know she wouldn’t have to face her father at once, she felt a gnawing fear that this absence of a formal greeting did not bode well. Her father was a stickler for tradition, but it seemed he was more than willing to break it in the event of his wayward daughter returning like a prodigal son.

“Hecate,” said her mother, her voice warm and musical despite being weak with illness. It had always been the kind of voice meant for chanting, for bedtime stories, for soft conversations over afternoon tea. The Duchess had otherwise adapted to a rather hostile environment, but her voice would always remain one ill-suited to shouting, arguing, or screaming. Yet, Hecate remembered a childhood hiding in the garden while her parents did just that.

Best not to dwell. Her mother was beyond that now, and she had never been afraid of her mother when she was angry. Her mother’s displays of fury were unwaveringly righteous ones, noble ones, made in opposition to some emotional or physical or magical indiscretion of her father’s. No, Hecate had never feared her mother as she did her father, despite her ability to match fire with fire in Hecate’s youth.

Hecate had often feared _for_ her mother; she had feared that one day she would have had enough, and she would leave them, would divorce the Duke and leave Hecate behind to face his wrath alone, but those were a child’s worries. She had underestimated her mother’s strength, then. To this day, Hecate had never seen someone else match her father blow for blow. Not even the High Witch herself.

But enough of that. The past was the past. There would be no more duels over the dinner table; her mother was lucky to be able to lift a glass of witch’s brew to her lips.

Hecate was not shocked by seeing her mother’s pale and sickly form wrapped beneath shawls and blankets, as she had kept a regular correspondence with her over the years, but seeing it through a mirror and seeing it now, with nothing between them, was enough to crack away at her resolve. In her mind, her mother was still flamenco dancing in the garden, singing in the library, standing in the center of the ballroom, entertaining witches and wizards from all over the world with her beauty and charm…

Rather than walk twenty feet, Hecate transferred directly to her mother’s side, reached her arms around her, and whispered, _“Madre. ¿Cómo te sientes?”_

_“Mejor. Ahora que estás aquí.”_

Pippa Pentangle, for her part, remained in the spot where Miss Bat had transferred her, away from the reunion. Miss Bat hadn’t released her hand, but that wasn’t what was keeping her planted where she stood.

Pippa knew it was rude to stare, but she was unprepared for the sight before her. She had imagined Hecate’s mother to be one of those women who were fierce and hardy in the face of illness, who kept up the appearance of health until they quite literally dropped dead. But the woman before her wasn’t making any effort to appear well. There was no glamour spell, no makeup to hide what years of sickness had left behind. Pippa had always thought Hecate was too thin for her own good, though she would never have said anything, but the Duchess was quite literally skin and bone. She sat in the center of The Great Hall, in a wheelchair of sorts, but a magical one the likes of which Pippa had never seen. It floated in the air, rather than rolled upon wheels. In fact, if Pippa had tried to describe it, she would have said it was closer to a magic carpet than anything else. Though, it was in fact a chair—no, a throne—which hovered and moved upon a single command. An object like that must require an obscene amount of magic to enchant.

Miss Bat, quite incorrectly, thought Pippa’s mystification had something to do with the rapid conversing in Spanish that was occurring between the Hardbroom women. “It’s good for Her Grace to speak her own language again. Now that the illness has reached her mind, I worry she may eventually forget her other languages altogether, but at least with Hecate here, she has someone who can speak it back to her.”

 _How awful_ , thought Pippa as she watched Hecate’s tongue and lips roll over her “r”s.

Pippa herself could only ever speak two languages, English and French, but now that she had lived in London for most of her life, French no longer felt like her first language. Her French was like a phantom voice inside her head, an inconvenience when she could only remember a word by the foreign name she called it as a child. She dreamt in French, sometimes, and when she woke she was always left with a sense of missing something, like she had abandoned a part of her and now it was too late to reclaim it in the waking world.

Exactly how many languages did Hecate speak? This would make three, in Pippa’s recent memory, and now she was beginning to suspect that it was quite possible that Hecate knew more. She vaguely remembered an author, early on in their partnership, who had proposed a modern spell book that would have classical Latin equivalents on the opposite page, and Pippa had scoffed at it. Latin was a dead language, one that was only necessary for ancient spells which all had newer alternatives anyway. What was the use of a book that most people could only half read?

But Hecate, of course, had argued that just because _Pippa_ had never bothered to study the ancient spells, didn’t mean the book would be useless or unmarketable. Hecate used ancient spells in her daily life, because she felt they were truer to “The Craft.” Her assistant was always harping about “The Craft” and its decline. Speaking Latin wasn’t the same as knowing spells in Latin, but if Pippa knew anything at all about Hecate, it was that she never did anything halfway.

As Pippa watched Hecate’s mother lift a delicate palm to Hecate’s cheek, she was struck by how similar, and yet how wholly different, the two ladies looked. The Duchess was a small woman, and it was not solely due to her illness. Even sitting down, Pippa could tell that on her feet, she would still be much shorter than Pippa herself.

 _Hecate must get her height from her father, then_ , thought Pippa. But Hecate’s hair was entirely her mother’s, as was made clear by the two heads covered in the same dark, wavy locks bent in conversation. The Duchess’ hair was streaked with gray, but it still stubbornly retained some of its former color, perhaps with the assistance of magic.

”My darling, I have always loved our chats, but we are being quite rude to our guest.”

The Duchess commanded her chair to move towards Pippa and Miss Bat. Suddenly realizing that she was still holding Miss Bat’s hand, she squeezed it and let go before doing a sad approximation of a curtsy.

”Your Grace,” Pippa said, bowing her head a bit, wishing she knew more about etiquette, or at least had asked Hecate to explain it to her before arriving.

”I’ll have none of that. My name is Catalina.”

Pippa looked to Hecate, lost. She imagined calling the Duchess by her first name was out of the question, even when asked to do so. But Hecate just raised a shoulder, as if to say, _Do_   _what she wants._

”Then, well met, Catalina,” said Pippa nervously, raising the back of her hand to her forehead. “You’re welcome to call me Pippa.”

”Pippa? Or Hades’ Mistress? I’ve heard it both ways.”

Pippa’s mouth fell open, and she looked to Hecate in indignation. Hecate, at least, appeared appropriately apologetic as she said, “A small joke, said in jest, years ago. No offense was intended.”

Pippa shut her mouth with a snap, eyes flickering between the two Hardbrooms. Side-by-side, it was disconcerting to see a version of Hecate who was not Hecate, but had the same dark, brown eyes that had the power to render her speechless.

”Yes, of course. I don’t mean to offend, Miss Pentangle. I am just...surprised by your appearance here with my daughter.”

Hecate shifted her weight uncomfortably. “That’s actually what I came to speak to you about. But I had intended to tell you and Father at the same time. Is he here?”

Catalina Hardbroom adjusted the quilt on her lap, and Pippa recognized it for the anxious gesture it was, though she did it with an air of nonchalance.

”He received a message from Mr. Hellibore last night that had him in a state, I can tell you. He thought it was nothing but salacious gossip. But then, this morning, not long after I spoke with you, he took a mirror call from Mistress Broomhead. You remember how...unkind your old tutor can be?”

”I remember,” said Hecate, her voice not as emotionless as she would like it to be.

“I suspect he’s waiting for you to call on him in the library to explain it all.”

”Well,” said Hecate, taking a deep breath.  She was tired of waiting with the Sword of Damocles dangling overhead. “There is nothing to ‘explain.’”

Hecate moved to stand beside Pippa. It felt like they were standing in front of Hellibore all over again, but this time it was Hecate’s turn to deliver the news. Pippa reached out a hand, not knowing if Hecate would accept it, but feeling the need to show her support in anyway she could. Hecate took it in both of her own, with an almost grateful look, as if she, too, had needed some physical grounding in this moment. 

“Pippa and I are engaged to be married.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough translation of Spanish bits: “Mother. How do you feel?”  
> “Better. Now that you’re here.”
> 
> I really wanted this story to acknowledge that Raquel Cassidy/Hecate Hardbroom is not just some English Rose. Her mother is Spanish, and that’s important and relevant to a story about heritage/immigration.


	10. The Duke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Duchess and Ms. Bat are very protective of Hecate. The Duke, decidedly, is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mild violence. implied/confirmed abuse.

“Pippa and I are engaged to be married.”

Pippa held her breath. She didn’t know what to hope for. Congratulations? Encouragement? Confusion? Anything but disappointment, horror, or fury. Pippa had only known the Duchess for mere minutes, but even so, her opinion, her _approval_ , was surprisingly significant to her.

_Get a grip, Pippa. This is all fake. You aren’t_ actually _going to be this woman’s daughter-in-law. The opinion of a dying witch is of no consequence._

But that last thought scared Pippa, almost as if it had come from someone else, someone she used to be, when she was drowning in the loss of her own parents. Of course it mattered. This was Hecate’s mother; sick or not, it _mattered_ what she thought, despite Pippa’s typical philosophy of not caring how anyone judged what she said or did.

Ultimately, Pippa needn’t have worried. Upon hearing the news, the Duchess smiled at them affectionately. Pippa noticed her lips were terribly chapped, and wondered if they would crack, would bleed, if her smile grew any wider.

Her mother commanded her chair to move closer to Hecate. Despite her grin, her voice was tinged with a bit of reproach. “I only ever find out about your lovers when you’re ready to marry them. Why is that?”

The Duchess’ face was open and kind, but the question was pointed. It was clear that it was not intended to be rhetorical. Pippa shifted nervously on her feet, palm sweating where it was still held between Hecate’s hands.

If her assistant had an answer, she wasn’t sharing it. Pippa wondered, not for the first time, how many years it had been since Hecate was last engaged, and how it had all ended. Clearly, her mother had known about it, which Pippa found somewhat surprising. She had half expected it to be a secret—a whispered promise, a date and time to run away, to elope—and a romantic one, at that. To have the Duchess toss such information out like it was nothing, like it was all part of some larger joke about Hecate’s need for privacy, was disconcerting, to say the least.

Catalina Hardbroom, seeing that she was not going to get an answer, moved on with the skill of a woman who had spent her whole life asking questions that had no possibility of a polite response. She reached out a trembling hand, and Hecate let go of Pippa’s in order to take it.

“All I’ve ever cared about is your happiness, Hecate. You know that, don’t you?”

Hecate swallowed. A muscle in her jaw jumped. She looked up at the high ceiling, suddenly finding the floating candles to be magical marvels and not the work of a level one levitation spell. “I suppose I do.”

“And are you? Happy?” The Duchess’ eyes were far too keen. It was like she could see right through them, and yet, her smile never wavered.

Hecate looked to Pippa, as if in consultation. Pippa had no qualms about making their lie as pleasant as possible. If Pippa had her way, she would be known to the world as the best fiancé there ever was, fake relationship or not.

“I hope to make your daughter very happy, if she’ll let me,” Pippa beamed.

Hecate’s bewildered look tugged at Pippa’s heart. It would be funny, if it weren’t so heartbreaking. She looked as if this were entirely incomprehensible, as if happiness was never part of their deal. Pippa would have to talk to her about that. Just because this was all a farce, didn’t mean they couldn’t find some joy in it, or in each other.

Pippa knew that was dangerous territory—suggesting to Hecate that they _enjoy_ being engaged, when it wasn’t real—but there was nothing to be gained from making each other miserable, that’s for sure.

“That’s good to hear, Miss Pentangle,” said the Duchess, squeezing Hecate’s hand with as much pressure as she could manage, which wasn’t much at all, before letting go. “My daughter is precious to me, you understand?”

Pippa did. This was The Duchess’ very subtle version of: _If you hurt my daughter I swear I’ll_ —

Miss Bat, whom Pippa had quite forgotten, interrupted her thoughts. “She’s precious to me, too, while we’re at it. I’ve seen her hurt enough for one lifetime, thank you very much, so if your intentions are dishonorable, Miss Pentangle, you ought to know you’ll have to answer to a very old, very powerful witch.”

Pippa swallowed. Maybe she had underestimated the protectiveness of this family.

Hecate looked to Pippa apologetically. “Miss Bat doesn’t mean anything by it. She’d never hurt a fly.”

Miss Bat was staring at Pippa with what she imagined was meant to be an intimidating expression, but only really managed to be endearing, in Pippa’s mind.

“I would hurt a fly that hurt you.”

Hecate looked between her mother and her nanny in exasperation. “Who says I’m going to get hurt? Would I bring her here if I thought she had ill intent? Do you not trust my judgment?”

Miss Bat and the Duchess exchanged a wary look. Clearly, Hecate didn’t have a very good memory.

“Hecate, darling, we didn’t mean to upset you. Miss Pentangle seems lovely. We just know that the two of you haven’t always seen eye to eye—” began the Duchess.

“Like you and Father don’t ‘see eye to eye?’”

Silence fell in the Great Hall. Pippa tried her best not to squirm with the discomfort of it all. Miss Bat moved to stand behind the Duchess’ chair. They were a united front, and Pippa was almost embarrassed to be defended from them, when they so obviously just wanted Hecate’s heart to be safe.

“Your father and I may have our differences, but ultimately, our love created you. I don’t regret a single decision that led to you. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t have been happier if we were a bit more compatible,” said the Duchess, her voice straining just a tad by the end.

Hecate’s face fell. “Mother, I—”

“I’m tired, Miss Bat. I think I’ll retire now, if you’d be so kind.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Miss Bat, raising a hand to transfer them away, but pausing when it became clear that the Duchess had more to say.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Pentangle.”   

“The pleasure was mine,” said Pippa, but the words felt wrong somehow, like this wasn’t the correct pleasantry for the situation.

“Good night, Hecate. I love you dearly. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Mother,” said Hecate, her eyes shining in the candlelight.

Miss Bat waved a hand, and they were gone.

Hecate and Pippa stood in silence as time ticked by. Pippa didn’t know how to reassure Hecate that everything was fine, when she highly suspected that things were only going to get worse from here.

“Your mother knows you didn’t mean any harm, Hecate,” said Pippa eventually.

Hecate’s face was unreadable, and half in shadow from the uneven candlelight.

“I did, though,” said Hecate, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle where her dress hugged her thighs. “I meant it. I still have so much… _anger_. Inside. It’s unbearable. She’s dying, but all I can feel is…angry.”

Pippa was surprised by this candor. She wished Hecate was this honest with her more often.

“Why are you angry at her?”

“Not _at_ her,” said Hecate, sighing. She turned on her heel, pacing across the ornate rug that covered the stone floor. “I’m angry because she never left, and she should have. We could’ve both been free of this place and she _stayed_.”

Pippa tried to imagine what it was like to have grown up here, in this cold castle, with the weight of tradition and expectation and a mother who loved you but not enough to take you away from it all.

“If she stayed, I’m sure it was because she thought it was the right thing to do,” said Pippa carefully, knowing she was in way over her head, but doing her best to play devil’s advocate.

“Don’t you see?” said Hecate, turning too quickly and almost crashing right into Pippa where she had followed close behind. They had an awkward moment as Pippa reached out to steady her, but Hecate had already backed away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

The moment passed. Hecate crossed her arms in front of her, tapping her fingers on her arms to get rid of her excess energy.

“What don’t I see?” said Pippa softly, trying to communicate how desperately she wanted to understand.

“How long am I expected to be kept waiting?” a booming voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, bouncing off the stone walls and setting Pippa’s teeth on edge.

Across the hall, there was a staircase that led to goddess-knows-where. At the landing, about halfway down the staircase, there suddenly appeared a man, wearing long, flowing, traditional robes that were lined with fur and jewels. He was tall, taller than Hecate, and built like wizard-ball player. This was a man who had only grown stronger with age, whose health couldn’t be denied by the way he descended the remaining stairs with fierce vitality.

Pippa, who found it quite silly to transfer to the middle of a staircase rather than the bottom for the sole purpose of making a dramatic entrance, also knew intuitively that to laugh would be to sign her own death scroll.

Beside Pippa, Hecate suddenly dipped into a deep curtsy. Pippa was so shocked by it that she didn’t realize she should be doing the same until the Duke was nearly directly in front of them.

“Your Grace!” said Pippa, following Hecate’s lead. She felt strange in this dress that wasn’t her own, curtsying to someone she neither knew nor respected.

But the Duke was paying her no attention. He went straight for Hecate, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her up from her curtsy.

“I demand to know why you have shown up here like a thief in the night—”

“Father, I—”

The Duke shook her. “Do not interrupt me, girl. Why have you arrived with this—this—”

“My fiancé?” said Hecate, her voice stronger than Pippa would expect.

“How dare you mock me?”  The Duke’s magic crackled, sparked, and twisted around both of them before charging solely at Hecate. It lifted her up, briefly, and tossed her to the ground.

Pippa was horrified. She ran to Hecate’s side, helping her to sit up. Hecate clutched at Pippa’s shoulders, breathing deeply. Pulling Pippa close for just a moment, Hecate whispered hoarsely in her ear, “Meet my father, the Duke of Mey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Duke of Mey" is a fictional title. Just go with it.
> 
> Please let me know how you feel about this chapter. It's hard to give a character a proper entrance when his reputation has been discussed by the other characters at length.


	11. The Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate's father is a piece of work, but Pippa isn't afraid to stand up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Homophobia, implied past child abuse. 
> 
> For the rest of the chapters, let's just say there's a general warning of the Duke being an abusive asshole. He won't play a huge part in the story--he won't even be in every chapter--but his presence is hard to ignore when he is there. I don't plan on anything in this story getting so graphic that it's unpalatable to read, but I don't want to shy away from the fact that Hecate is back in an abusive home to which she had never planned to return. Pippa is her knight in shining armor. There will be happiness, I promise.

The Duke towered over them as Hecate regained her bearings. Pippa wondered just how hard she had hit the floor. Hecate was already attempting to get up, and Pippa had to war with herself for a moment as to whether she should help her up or just transfer them both away. Her mind raced with options. They could go back to the garden. They could come up with a plan there. They could go to an inn, to a pub, to a hostel… _anywhere_ but here, with this vicious man whose face promised that throwing his daughter to the ground was mere child’s play.

Hecate hadn’t been prepared for such an unprovoked attack. Usually her father waited at least until they were alone to release his anger. She must be getting soft in her middle age; her younger self would’ve had a protective spell in front of her the moment her father entered the room in such a state.

She should’ve seen it coming. She knew he had spent all day stewing in Mistress Broomhead’s mirror call. Her Father was never very good at disconnecting his emotions from his magic. He was a powerful wizard—getting more powerful with each passing year—and yet, he had never learned control. That made him dangerous.

Quite frankly, that made him far more than just dangerous. The High Witch should really have been informed years ago that she highly suspected her father was _incapable_ of controlling his magic. He had never gone to a proper wizardry school; he was tutored into adulthood by the best of the best, and yet, he emerged from that education sorely lacking fundamental abilities that would keep those around him safe.

As Hecate looked at him, standing bold as brass with his loose magic gathering like a thundercloud above them, she suddenly found it all so…pathetic. She had better control of her magic as a toddler. She may fear his senseless acts of violence and short temper, but his command of The Craft? Pitiful.

Her father continued his tirade. “I told Catherine to send you to the library the moment Miss Bat fetched you from your ridiculous jaunt in the gardens!”

In the end, Pippa decided that transferring away wasn’t the best option, at least in the long run. She helped Hecate gingerly rise back up onto her feet. Pippa vaguely wondered who Catherine was, and why Hecate was the one being blamed when it was her father who had refused to greet them properly in the Great Hall. 

The Duke continued, his eyes blazing, “I wanted to avoid a spectacle like this, and yet, it’s inevitable with you, isn’t it? You can never hold your tongue.”

Pippa could feel Hecate’s body go rigid beneath her hands, where she was still supporting her. She was afraid to let go, lest the Duke transfer Hecate somewhere to have it out with her alone, and then Pippa would really have reason to panic.

“I wasn’t mocking you, Father. I was reminding you that the woman you were about to insult was my fiancé,” said Hecate firmly.

“You expect me to believe that what your old tutor told me is true?”

Hecate’s eyes found Pippa’s. “I don’t know what Mrs. Broomhead said, but Pippa is my fiancé, and I love her. That’s the only truth that matters.”

The Duke eyed Pippa like she was a failed potions experiment. “You would humiliate me by flaunting this floozy to high society?”

“With respect, sir, this ‘floozy’ can hear you,” said Pippa, tired of keeping quiet.

“Well, then, hear this,” said the Duke, moving menacingly closer, “I will not allow it. My daughter may have been corrupted by modern values, but I refuse to allow her to tarnish the Hardbroom name with the likes of you.”

“Father,” said Hecate unrelentingly, “we’re not asking your permission. I am going to marry her. I only came here as a courtesy to Mother.”

Pippa was impressed by Hecate’s conviction. _She_ almost believed their engagement was real, by how fiercely Hecate defended it.

The Duke had bright green eyes that flashed with malice. “Then, as a ‘courtesy’ to your mother, you ought to explain why you’ve decided to go to prison for a French tart.”

Pippa was beyond furious. She knew that she had a reputation in all the gossip magazines and witching newspapers as an incorrigible flirt, a ‘loose’ woman, with a taste for men, women, and everyone in between or outside the outdated gender binary, but that didn’t give people the right to say such nasty things. And to her face, no less!

“How dare you—?” began Pippa, but Hecate squeezed her arm, as if in warning. Her eyes said, _Let me handle him_.

“Father, I won’t be going to prison, because I love her. Mrs. Broomhead can do or say whatever she likes, but it won’t change the fact that we’re in love. If she tries to imprison me for that love, I will appeal to the Witch’s Council, and I will reveal, in graphic detail, exactly why Mistress Britta Broomhead is not only unfit to hold office, but incapable of an unbiased ruling when it comes to my fiancé’s visa.”

Pippa inhaled sharply through her nose.

The Duke’s face warped into something cruel and disbelieving. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d never be able to prove it.”

Hecate’s voice went astonishingly cold. Pippa nearly shivered at its intensity. “Are you so sure? Are you willing to face a trial by the Witch’s Council? You, and the Hardbroom name, will forever be linked with the scandal, even if the crimes can’t be proven.”

“Are you threatening me, girl?” The Duke’s magic filled the air, hanging like a suffocating vapor around them.

“If you feel threatened, it’s only because you know I am right.” Hecate took Pippa’s hand and laced their fingers together. “You have more to lose by opposing our marriage than supporting it. Whatever your beliefs on my ‘modern’ appetites, you know Mother will never forgive you if you stand in our way, and she’ll _die_ if she has to testify in front of the whole witching world that she never knew what went on behind closed doors in this goddess-forsaken castle.”

The Duke paced in front of them, and Pippa was struck by how, only a few minutes ago, Hecate had done the same, with the same sharp movements, the same tense posture. It was an eerie comparison, one that Pippa rejected immediately, but it was the way the two of them moved—as if their bodies would combust if they didn’t let loose their magic—that made Pippa’s stomach flip.

“I can see that there’s no reasoning with you. It is your choice to selfishly throw away years of magical tradition. I won’t give you my blessing—that’s too much to ask—but I will allow your…engagement…to be announced.”

Hecate seemed to think this was a fair compromise, so Pippa bit her tongue. She knew it wouldn’t help the situation to antagonize the Duke, but it _would_ make her feel better.

“Thank you, Father.”

The candlelight glinted off the Duke’s silver hair. Pippa didn’t have to wonder if he was handsome in his youth, but she doubted his appearance ever made up for his personality. She found it hard to believe that the Duchess ever found a reason good enough to marry him.

“Your mother has arranged for a ball tomorrow. You will behave appropriately; you will not flaunt your lifestyle. The less I see, the more pleasant your lives, do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good,” he said, and with that, he turned sharply on his heel, so that his robes would fan out behind him, and headed back towards the staircase.

Pippa could feel her magic rising, begging to be released. She had kept it in check, just barely, throughout the whole encounter, but this last dig about their "lifestyle" was like he had taken a knife to her carefully constructed curtain of control.

“I have something to say.”

“Pippa, no—”

Hecate’s eyes were panicked as the Duke turned around to face them again.

“I love your daughter, Your Grace. When I took this ring, I swore to protect her. If you hurt her again while I am here, no guards, no charms, no castle wall will prevent me from hexing you to within an inch of your life. Do _you_ understand?”

The magical tension of three powerful, emotional people made the atmosphere in the room unbreathable. Hecate’s magic acted of its own accord, creating a protective, invisible bubble around the two of them should the Duke attack. She knew Pippa would be the death of her, but she didn't expect that death to arrive so soon.

To her surprise, the Duke did not immediately react. Slowly, so slowly it felt as if a time spell had been cast, a smile stretched across his smug face.

“You will regret ever stepping foot inside this castle, Miss Pentangle. Mark my words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Catherine" is the English equivalent of "Catalina." This will be addressed later, but if anyone is especially confused, the Duke blatantly calls his wife by a different name than she calls herself. Messed up, right?
> 
> Please let me know if you think this story should have a "graphic depictions of violence" warning. So far, I thought the violence would be considered "mild" rather than "graphic," but I will err on the side of caution if anyone strongly disagrees.


	12. The Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa and Hecate have a disagreement about their sleeping arrangements.

The Duke transferred away with the sound of a thunderclap and a flurry of robes.

Despite her relief that he had gone without further retaliation, Hecate still felt faint, as if all of her energy had left the room with him. The stone floor of the Great Hall tilted alarmingly beneath her feet, but she absolutely refused to return to the ground if she could help it.

Pippa wondered if Hecate realized that she still hadn’t removed the protective bubble around them, or if it was so completely involuntary that she had no control over it. Though it was invisible, Pippa knew it was there by the way the air around her smelled vaguely of ozone. She reached a hand out to touch it, to see how far it stretched, curious to know what the shield felt like, but Hecate realized what she intended to do and dissolved it before she had the chance.

“That was very foolish, Pippa.” Hecate’s eyes were wide and stormy. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her, hands tucked into her elbows as if to keep Pippa from seeing them shake.

“What? I was just getting into character. Too much?”

Hecate’s sour face was answer enough. “I’m a grown witch. I can handle my father without your help.”

Pippa highly suspected this was a lie, but she wouldn’t say so out loud. It wasn’t that she thought Hecate incapable of defending herself—she’d heard Dimity’s highly dramatized but no doubt somewhat accurate version of Hecate’s hexing of Hellibore at Samhain—it was that she didn’t trust the Duke. He seemed the type of wizard to fight dirty, to use forbidden spells that had no legal counter-spells, and she hardly thought Hecate would resort to less conventional means of protection. What was so wrong about wanting to lend her magic to the cause of keeping Hecate safe?

Pippa fiddled with the ring on her finger. “I was just doing what any good fiancé would do.”

Hecate flinched back, as if she had been slapped. Her whole face changed into one of mortification and shock.

Pippa wondered if she would ever know all of Hecate’s past, or if she’d just have to continue to riddle it out by saying silly, innocuous things that turned out to be triggers.

“I’m sorry?” said Pippa cautiously, not knowing if she should just stop talking altogether. Silence was most likely the safest route, but as Hellibore would attest, Pippa never did like playing it safe. Not with the company, not with money, not with people, not with life in general.

Hecate recovered slowly. She took a deep breath. “It was a long day, and I’m exhausted. There’s nothing to be done about any of it until the morning, so I suggest we get some sleep.”

Hecate summoned an ornate, Victorian hand mirror from thin air. Pippa couldn’t help but stare in awe of it. It looked like it came straight out of an old classic novel.

“Miss Bat,” Hecate said, looking deep into the mirror.

“Yes, dear?” said Miss Bat, her image appearing in the center.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you tell me which guest room has been prepared for Pippa?”

Miss Bat beamed from ear to ear. “Dear, your mother and I aren’t under any illusions that you two don’t sleep in the same bed. Her things have been placed in your old room.”

Hecate made a strangled sound in the back of her throat, and coughed as if to clear it. “But, you see, we prefer—”

“I even brought the fertility quilt out of vanishment and placed it on your bed!”

“Miss Bat!?” Hecate’s voice was high and breathless.

“Pleasant dreams!” said Miss Bat, winking before the mirror returned to its original state.

Hecate gaped at her own reflection, taking note of how her cheeks had flushed nearly to the color of her gown in her embarrassment.

Pippa had to stifle a giggle when Hecate vanished the mirror with the air of someone headed to her own funeral pyre.

“I like Miss Bat. She’s lovely.”

“She’s incorrigible.”

Deciding not to prolong the moment, uncomfortable as it was, Hecate transferred them both to her childhood bedroom.

They reappeared in a windowless room with undecorated stone walls and very little furniture. There was a large bed in the center with a red comforter and gold accents. Flush with the back wall, the wooden headboard stood, with a fascinatingly intricate carving of the Greek goddess Hecate keeping company with Persephone in the Underworld. Pippa wanted to look closer, but she could sense Hecate’s tense body beside her, and she doubted now was the best time to walk over to her bed to get a better look.

Against the right wall was a large mahogany wardrobe, while against the other sat a vanity table with a three-part mirror. On this vanity there was a single hairbrush, a jewelry box, and a book of spells.

Speaking of books, Pippa’s eyes were drawn to a small bookcase that lined the wall by the door. The books were all in varying stages of age, and most of them looked as though they had been read so many times that their spines were quite broken-in.

Finally, Pippa’s eyes settled upon the full-length mirror in the far-right corner. She imagined Hecate at sixteen, standing before it in a too-bright dress, criticizing her reflection before marching to the wardrobe a couple of feet away to try on something new.

Pippa was struck by how few personal touches there were to be found. This room could’ve belonged to anyone, or no one, for all of its decoration. She walked slowly, as if afraid to spook Hecate by showing too much interest, to one of the few keepsakes in sight, a small portrait of the Duchess—young and healthy and smiling—sitting in a frame on the nightstand, next to another even smaller portrait of the whole Hardbroom family. Hecate couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but she already had a somber expression, as though she were terribly world-weary after a decade of living and didn’t care for the photographer documenting it. She was wearing a plain black dress, quite unlike what one would think the daughter of a duke would wear. In contrast, the Duke stood proudly in his luxurious traditional robes, his hand solicitously placed at the small of the Duchess’ back. Catalina Hardbroom was wearing a gown that swallowed her small body in layers and layers of fabric. Her left hand was clutched, quite tightly, by the look of it, by Hecate’s small fingers.

Hecate’s voice cut her inspection of the photo short.

“Here is your suitcase,” said Hecate, business-like, pointing to the offending object that sat next to the vanity, beside her own. “The bathroom is through here.”

Hecate walked over to a heavy-looking door on the left side of the vanity and opened it to reveal a small bathroom with modern facilities that defied the age of the castle. “Spare towels are in the closet.”

Hecate vaguely wondered if she should check to make sure they were still there, since this room hadn’t been lived in for nearly thirty years. Even before that, Hecate hardly spent any time at the castle when she could help it. She was far too enamored of her oldest friend to waste a single night’s sleep alone, in her cold bed—

Hecate abruptly severed that train of thought. She couldn’t bear to think of how young and foolish and hopelessly in love she had been in those days. Not now, when her present situation felt like a cruel mockery of everything she used to hold dear.

It occurred to Pippa as she watched Hecate stand uncertainly beside the door to the restroom for far too long in pensive silence that her assistant had never agreed to sharing a room, let alone a bed, when they began this ruse. Quite frankly, she herself hadn’t even entertained the thought, though now it seemed a pressing one.

Pippa fidgeted with the sleeve of her gown. It was too long, though that was to be expected, since she assumed it had once been Hecate’s. “If this makes you too uncomfortable I could just sneak off to a guest room.”

Hecate placed a hand on her hip, while the other pressed a palm to her forehead. She closed her eyes, briefly, as if she were in pain. “In this castle, nothing is private. It would be noticed by a maid, or a footman, I’m sure, and they would tell the Duke, and he would be pleased, but suspicious.”

“Really? What if we told them we wanted to wait till marriage? Is that so unbelievable to a family as...traditional...as yours?”

Hecate didn’t immediately respond. Pippa watched as she crossed over to the bed and placed a hand upon the blanket that was folded at the foot. She paused a moment, and Pippa almost asked her what was wrong, but then Hecate picked it up, letting it unfurl with a dramatic flick of her wrists, and held it open for Pippa to see. The image of Demeter, Goddess of Fertility, was intricately and magnificently stitched across it.

“Clearly not.”

The look of disgust on Hecate’s face, combined with the image of Demeter on the blanket, and the overall ludicrousness of the situation, made a laugh bubble up from deep within Pippa.

“Well, I promise to be the perfect gentleman.”

“What?” said Hecate, bewildered, taking care to fold the blanket in half so as to hide the image.

“A joke, you know...” said Pippa uneasily. “Since we’re…sharing a bed?”

Pippa wished she had a camera to capture Hecate’s expression. It was so endearingly scandalized, as if Pippa had just propositioned her in a most hideous manner.

“I plan to sleep on the floor.” Hecate’s voice brooked no argument, but Pippa had heard that tone before, and she wasn’t afraid to challenge it.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding.”

But Hecate had already conjured a sleeping mat of sorts on the floor at the foot of the bed. She laid the fertility quilt over it, folding the edges beneath with military efficiency.

“Hecate, you _can’t_ sleep on the floor.”

Hecate’s eyes flashed and her tone of voice was a hex waiting to happen. “Pippa Pentangle, despite the fact that you are my boss, and currently wearing my engagement ring, you’d do well to remember that you are not in charge of my decisions, _particularly_ where I sleep.”

Pippa felt shame, and no small amount of horror wash over her. “Hecate, that’s not… I didn’t...” Pippa took a steadying breath. “All that I meant was that _I_ can sleep somewhere else. This is your home, and your room. If anyone is sleeping on the floor, it will be me.”

“But you’re a guest.” Hecate said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like asking a guest to sleep on the floor was sacrilegious.

“I’m a guest who’s blackmailing you into marrying me. I can survive a couple nights on a stone floor. It’ll do wonders for my back!”

Hecate moved to her suitcase, and pulled out a long black nightgown. “I’ve made my decision, and that’s that.”

With a rustle of fabric and a determined expression, Hecate disappeared into the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, Demeter is the Goddess of Fertility in terms of the Earth and harvest, not necessarily the fertility of women, but I made the choice for reasons far too complicated to explain in an author’s note. 
> 
> Please drop a line, tell me your feelings, I love to hear them. They keep me motivated!


	13. The Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa can't sleep.

Pippa couldn’t sleep, which was a new and unusual sensation. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable—to the contrary, it was softer and warmer than she expected it to be—nor was it linked to being in a new and unfamiliar place, for Pippa, though she didn’t like to brag, and was loath to feed the fire of those horrific gossip magazines, had slept soundly in many a strange bed without trouble.

Why was it, then, that sleep so eluded her? It couldn’t be the idea that only a couple feet away, Hecate was lying on the ground in her stubbornness. Pippa felt hardly any guilt on that count, since trying to convince Hecate to sleep in the bed had gone so unexpectedly and seriously wrong.

Pippa knew she wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. She had listened to Hecate’s breathing for hours, at the very least (though Pippa had no timepiece by which to check, and would never dream of touching Hecate’s watch, which sat on the vanity mocking her) and only just now heard the pattern change into one of deep sleep. Hecate didn’t snore—oh no, Goddess forbid—but her breathing was labored in sleep in a way it wasn’t while she was feigning unconsciousness to avoid conversation earlier. Pippa wondered if Hecate was having a nightmare, as she had heard the rustle, twist, and turn of the fertility blanket become louder as time passed.

Pippa rolled over onto her stomach. She lifted a curious hand above her head to trace Persephone’s likeness carved into the headboard. Like all young witches, Pippa had studied mythology and its link to the history of magic in school, but she never was very devoted to the stories. Her mother had been the suspicious and religious sort, always leaving offerings to the Goddesses on their feast days. The food would go rotten, untouched by hands divine or otherwise, and in response Pippa had developed a healthy amount of skepticism that remained with her to this day.

Persephone was depicted in flowing robes, majestic, sitting on her throne. Hecate stood beside her, in triplicate, glorious, holding a torch as if to bring light to the darkness of the Underworld. In this carving, Hecate didn’t appear as an old crone, but as a vibrant woman, proud and fierce, looking to the past, present, and future. Pippa vaguely wondered why this goddess was the one that the Duke and Duchess chose to name their child after. Hecate was revered as a goddess of witchcraft, to be sure, but it seemed a very hard name to live up to. The kind of name that never quite fit, no matter how brilliant or powerful a child grew up to be.

Pippa’s thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound coming from the foot of the bed. It was a strangled sound, high-pitched and haunting, and Pippa sat up immediately, worried that something was terribly wrong.

“Hecate?”

Pippa crawled to the end of the bed, scrambling as fast as she could. Little sparks of light, almost like fireworks, but without the array of colors or precision of a display, were exploding in the air above Hecate’s head. Her face was pressed into her pillow, and now Pippa could see and hear that the strangled sound was coming from deep in the back of Hecate’s throat.

It wasn’t a scream, not quite. Pippa had never heard anything quite like it. It made gooseflesh prick up along her arms, hair standing on end, rising up along with the high notes of the sound.

Pippa debated what she should do. Waking Hecate up was the most obvious option, but quite frankly, Pippa wasn’t interested in poking a sleeping dragon in the eye, especially a sleeping dragon whose magic was sending little balls of fire into the air.

Something shifted. The sound turned to a deep moan that made Pippa’s stomach flip. Was Hecate in pain? Was this a dream at all? Was there a curse on this woman, this room, this castle, that caused this disturbance? For all Pippa knew about magic, she had never encountered something even remotely like this before.

The sparks of fire abruptly extinguished and were replaced by a protective shield around Hecate’s head, not unlike a halo that shimmered in the dark. It would be beautiful—miraculous, even—except that Pippa was too concerned to spare much thought as to its aesthetic. Such high-leveled magic shouldn’t be possible to be performed in one’s sleep, without potions, without words, without gestures, without conscious thought.

Pippa, who always did her best to ignore and overcome fear whenever she could, found herself unable to push away her rising terror. She couldn’t breathe, she was so transfixed by the prospect of a witch being able to do unknown and near-impossible magic without awareness or control.

Hecate had cast a shield earlier, and it had been no more than a bubble, a soft, invisible, and malleable thing that served its purpose. This shield was no such thing. It moved like a shining gold pool, rippling in a way that distorted the image of Hecate’s head beneath it. Her hair was long and loose and tangled, hiding her face from view.

“Hecate?” Pippa said again, louder this time, but not quite shouting. She didn’t know if someone would come barging in if she made too much noise. Who knew what kind of alerts and charms were laced in these castle walls? She wouldn’t put it past the Duke to transfer directly into his daughter’s room without permission. It was unlikely they would be afforded any privacy at all, if Pippa attracted anyone’s attention.

And yet, this couldn’t go on. Magic, when not properly controlled, could be deadly. “ _Wake up_ , Hecate!”

Pippa watched as the shield reacted to her voice, her desperate command, as if someone had skipped a pebble across it.

_What in Merlin’s name—?_

Suddenly, the shield surged forward, knocking Pippa back into the bed. It didn’t hurt—the bed was soft and the press of the shield was no more than a gentle wave knocking a toddler into the sand. The shield washed over her, and then was gone, dissolved into the air like pixie dust.

Pippa heard a gasp from the foot of the bed, a sound like a drowning woman finally managing to take a breath.

“Hecate?” Pippa whispered, still lying on her back, afraid to move.

Hecate didn’t respond. Pippa could hear her choking on nothing, taking huge and too-fast gulps of air.

“Hecate, are you all right?” Pippa said, though she cringed at how her voice shook. She slowly sat up, doing a brief assessment of her body. The magic hadn’t caused her any pain, not in the slightest, but her skin tingled, as if her limbs had fallen asleep and were protesting the movement.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and walked gingerly over to where Hecate sat, clutching at her head, still gasping for air.

When Hecate saw her coming, she tried to scramble back and away, though she was tangled in the fertility blanket and didn’t get far. Pippa sat beside her, hands raised in a calming gesture.

“Breathe, Hecate. Breathe,” said Pippa, trying her best to be soothing, though her mind was racing with possibilities as to what in the world had just happened. “It was just a nightmare.”

But it wasn’t. Pippa knew it wasn’t. It wasn’t normal for nightmares to cause that kind of unconscious magic. Even children with night terrors at most only ever did baby magic, knocking over a lamp, turning on the lights without meaning to, and so on, and that was only in the rarest of cases.

“Did I—” Hecate’s voice was strangled, her eyes blown wide with fear. “Are you—are you hurt?”

Hecate’s hand was still pressed into her forehead, as if she had a severe headache. The other hand clutched at the neck of her nightgown, pushing into her chest.

“I’m fine,” Pippa said, not sure if it was the truth. Physically, she was fine. But mentally? Her mind was on fire.

Hecate closed her eyes. Pippa’s gaze was drawn to the way her nightgown had fallen down on one side, revealing a pale and bony shoulder. There was the beginning of a nasty bruise on her tricep, though Pippa couldn’t see how large it was as it disappeared beneath the bunched fabric. Something inside her twisted. Magic didn’t always leave a mark, but Pippa remembered vividly how the Duke had dragged Hecate up from her curtsy, his hands curled around her upper arms, his fingers digging in as he shook her. She realized that she had never seen Hecate like this before, soft and scared and shaking, and the intimacy of the moment became overwhelming.

“Hecate…do you know what happened just now?”

Hecate couldn’t breathe. She really couldn’t. There wasn’t any air in the room, and Pippa was much too close, and she could’ve hurt her, and she is dangerous, and it’s just as Mistress Broomhead always said, that she needs to be locked away, where no one will find her, she is dirty and she is dangerous and she will hurt everyone she loves and _why can’t she breathe?_

Suddenly, she felt something tugging at her nightgown. She opened her eyes to see Pippa, a breath away, if she could find her breath, replacing the shoulder of her gown that had fallen down her arm back to where it belonged.

Pippa’s eyes were concerned, but Hecate could still see the lingering fear, the potential for this woman to never again see her as her assistant, but as a wicked witch, a wild thing, a monster.

“I…” Hecate choked on the word. There was no excuse; she should be better, she couldn’t afford to lose control, not even in sleep. This was unacceptable. But still, the only words that came were the ones she had offered as a child when her magic ran away from her. “I’m sorry.”

Pippa’s eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. Not like Mistress Broomhead’s, not like her father’s.

“You don’t have to apologize. It was an accident. You were asleep. No harm done.”

Hecate couldn’t believe this woman’s naivete. Surely, she knew enough to know she should be frightened?

“I could’ve killed you,” Hecate said, voicing her worst fear, letting it out into the open. _Monster._

There was a brief moment, an instant, where Hecate and Pippa just looked at one another, looked into each other’s eyes, and Hecate thought she had finally gotten through to her, but then it was broken when Pippa had the audacity to laugh.

“You would never!” said Pippa, still chuckling. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Hecate felt a wave nausea overcome her. Sweet, stupid Pippa. She just didn’t understand.

“Honestly, I thought it was pretty amazing!” said Pippa, smiling. “I’d never seen anything like it before.”

 _And you never will again_ , thought Hecate. This couldn’t continue. This ended here.

“I need to go,” Hecate said urgently, using magic to disentangle herself from the blanket.

Pippa grabbed hold of her wrist, and Hecate could feel her magic rising, ready for a fight, and it took everything she had, every last ounce of energy, to push her magic down, to reign it in, to keep it from retaliating to the restraining hand.

“Wait, Hecate. You need to calm down. You shouldn’t do magic in the state you’re in. If you transfer away, I’m coming with you.”

“Don’t you see, Pippa—?!” Hecate said, wrenching her wrist away, but Pippa clung, clung so hard that instead of freeing her wrist, Hecate just succeeded in bringing Pippa uncomfortably closer.

“What I see is that you’re scared, and you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Alone is how I belong.”

The admission came unexpectedly, and Hecate immediately regretted her honesty.

Pippa looked like out of all the things Hecate had ever said, this was the most offensive to her.

“That’s not true,” said Pippa, her voice barely there. “Come on.”

Pippa grabbed her by the elbows and pulled, forcing Hecate to stand with her. All of the fight went out of Hecate. She was too exhausted to care. If Pippa wouldn’t listen to reason, on her own head be it.

“What—?”

Pippa brought Hecate over to the bed and pushed her down into the sheets. Hecate attempted to get back up, but Pippa’s hands were insistent, pinning her down, and for a moment Hecate felt trapped, felt caged, and panic seized her heart.

“What are you doing?”

Pippa clicked her tongue. “I’m tucking you in. What does it look like I’m doing?”

Hecate didn’t answer. Really, Pippa ought to know what it looked like, and how it felt, and how terrifying it all was.

“You’re going to get some sleep, and I’m going to be right here, and I’ll wake you up if things get out of hand.”

Pippa conjured a big, fluffy, pink chair beside the bed. It was the ugliest thing Hecate had ever seen.

“Really, I should go—” started Hecate, but Pippa cut her off.

“You’re staying right here, where I can keep an eye on you.” Pippa’s voice softened. “Please, Hecate. Just try and get some sleep. I’ll be fine, and I’ll make sure you are too.”

Hecate didn’t know why she suddenly felt like crying. She hadn’t cried properly since the last time she wore the ring that currently sat on her left hand, an unfamiliar and distracting weight.

“You’re a fool, Pippa Pentangle,” she said, her voice heavy, her throat raw.

“There are worse things to be,” said Pippa, conjuring herself a cup of tea. “Now, go to sleep.”

Resigned to her fate, Hecate turned over, turned away, and tried to ignore the way the pillow smelled like Pippa, like rosemary and mint and something sweet. Hiding her face in the soft fabric, Hecate allowed her tears to come and prayed Pippa knew what she was doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has questions about the Greek mythology in this chapter, feel free to pose them. I have ridiculous amounts of super-specific knowledge in certain areas due to my college education. On that note, I've just started grad school (getting my MFA) and I work three jobs, so I am struggling to find any time to breathe, but I am passionate about this story and will continue it until it is complete. If the updates slow down, please know that this story will never be abandoned. 
> 
> As always, please leave a review to let me know how you're liking this story so far. I'm going through a rough time, personally, and your comments always cheer me up.


	14. The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some wake-up calls are harder to handle than others.

Pippa had intended to be a witch of her word—to watch over Hecate until dawn—but her chair was so deliciously comfortable, and she had never flown fourteen hours in one day before traveling to Caithness, and quite frankly, who could blame her for wanting to rest her eyes for a bit? Luckily, Hecate’s sleep was mostly peaceful, and Pippa’s vigil proved to be unnecessary.

In the end, it wasn’t another nightmare that brought Pippa out of her slumber; instead, she was startled awake by a knock at the door.

“Hecate? Hecate, darling, are you awake?” came the voice of Catalina.

Pippa, still half-asleep and worried that she had broken her promise, looked to the woman in question. Her back was turned away, but Pippa could tell that she was still asleep by the slight rise and fall of her shoulders.

“Hecate? Miss Pentangle?” came another voice, which she recognized as Miss Bat’s.

“You really must get up, darling. We have a busy day ahead of us!”

“I hope everyone is decent in there!”

Something clicked, and Pippa, realizing that the door was about to be opened, leapt up from her seat, vanished the chair along with the sleeping mat on the floor, and dove into Hecate’s bed. She was certain her assistant would hex her for this, but it wouldn’t do for them to be discovered apart, if this charade were to be believed.

Upon Pippa’s abrupt entrance beneath her covers, Hecate jerked awake. Her magic rushed to defend her from the sudden weight beside her, but she forced it not to attack, vaguely remembering that control was key.

“Pippa—?” Hecate’s voice was high and scared, as if waking up to her boss jumping into bed with her was a sign of something sinister. She scrambled to get up and out of the bed, but Pippa looped an arm around her, keeping her in place. When all of this was over, Pippa would really have to apologize for all of the times she’d manhandled her assistant, especially because she knew Hecate disliked being touched.

“Good morning, ladies!” said Catalina Hardbroom, hovering in the hallway as Miss Bat opened the door.

“Mother, please, is there no privacy—?!”

“Oh, pish, posh, darling. We’ve brought breakfast from the kitchens!”

And they had. Miss Bat carried a tray laden with tea and scones. Pippa’s mouth watered at the sight.

“Mother, I’ve asked you never to come into my room uninvited—”

“Well, you two would have slept the day away, and we have half of Scotland arriving at noon,” Catalina smiled as her chair hovered over to them. “Not to mention a third of the peerage—the ones your father hasn’t managed to antagonize yet!”  

“Now, eat up!” said Miss Bat, placing the tray on Pippa’s lap.

Hecate closed her eyes, pinching her nose to keep her budding headache at bay. “Mother, really, we just woke up, would you mind giving us time to—”

“But you see, darling, there is no time!” Catalina waved a hand towards Hecate’s watch on the vanity, intending to summon it, but it only gave a brief wiggle forward before falling still. Miss Bat, never one to let her charge dwell on her failing magic, summoned it instead. It flew into the Duchess’ outstretched hand obediently, and Catalina nodded in thanks. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock. You two need to be dressed and ready to receive the guests when they arrive.”

Pippa’s mouth fell open in shock. “ _Eleven_? Well, we’ve certainly overslept!”

“Not to worry, dear,” said Miss Bat. “Young love is tiring business! I see the fertility blanket was put to good use.”

Hecate’s cheeks went red as Miss Bat summoned the blanket from the floor, folded it with magic, and placed it on top of the comforter by their feet.

“In that vein—” Catalina began.

“Mother, please—”

“Hush, Hecate, I have something important to say.”

“It’s true, dear. Your mother and I have been talking and—”

“We want you to get married, here, tomorrow!”

If Pippa was shocked before, she was speechless now. Hecate wasn’t much better. She looked as if she had been hit with a stunning spell.

“What?” she whispered.

“You’re going to get married anyway,” said Miss Bat, “so why don’t you get married here, where we can all be together?”

“But—” Hecate wracked her mind for a reason to refuse that wouldn’t upset her mother. “We—we just—we can’t.”

“Why not?” Catalina raised an eyebrow. “I know it’s all very sudden, but it would mean the world to me to see you happy and settled.”

Pippa looked between the Hardbroom women, utterly lost. She could feel Hecate’s body stiffen beside her. She had really gotten them into an increasingly thorny predicament, hadn’t she?

“Hecate and I don’t want a big wedding. We were just planning on a civil ceremony performed by a councilwoman,” Pippa reasoned, hoping she wasn’t speaking out of place.

“Miss Pentangle, that’s all very well,” Miss Bat said, her voice gentle but firm, “but Hecate is the future Duchess of Mey, and there are certain traditions she simply—”

“I’m well aware of tradition,” said Hecate, “but this is my life, and—”

“I understand.” Catalina hovered closer to Hecate to lift the chain of the watch necklace over her head. Hecate’s fingers immediately moved to curl around the timepiece. “I had just hoped I’d live to see your wedding day. I don’t know how much more time I have left.”

Pippa felt a wave of nausea. Suddenly, the food on her lap was no longer appetizing. She could feel Hecate’s body tremble.

“Mother, I—”

“Come along, Miss Bat. Let’s give these two the privacy they desire.”

The Duchess commanded her chair to move towards the door. Miss Bat fiddled with the fertility blanket for a moment before following in her wake.

“Mother, wait.”

Catalina paused in the doorway. “Yes, darling?”

Hecate seemed to struggle with herself for a moment. Finally, she said, “We would be happy to have the wedding here.”

“How lovely!” said Miss Bat, clapping with glee.

“Wonderful.” Catalina’s eyes were dark and wet. “Now, you really must be getting ready.”

With that, Miss Bat transferred them away, shutting the door as she did so.

Pippa stared at the door for a long time, waiting for Hecate to say something. The food sat, untouched. If Pippa listened really closely, she could hear the tick of the watch in Hecate’s hands, and she vaguely wondered if her soon-to-be wife was listening, too, counting the seconds slipping away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long absence. I was overwhelmed with work, school, and life. Glad to be returning to this story! I hope you're all still interested. Please let me know what you think; it's been a long time since I've written something for pleasure, and I really value your thoughts.


	15. The Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa and Hecate have breakfast in bed.

“Oh Goddess! Oh Goddess…” Hecate said, her head suddenly cradled by her hands. “When Miss Bat finds out this is all a ruse, she’s… she’s going to be heartbroken, and my mother… Oh Goddess! My mother is going to _die._ ”

“They’re not going to find out—” Pippa began, but Hecate was spiraling.

“And my father! What was all of _that_ last night _?_ He’s got something sinister planned; I just know it.”

“Hecate just breathe—they’re not going to—” Pippa ran her hands up and down Hecate’s arms, trying to soothe her.

“And the wedding? _Tomorrow?!”_

“Relax, Hecate. It’s okay. They’re not going to find out.” Pippa thought that if she just kept repeating it, it would be true. “It’s not like we’re going to be married forever. We’ll be happily divorced before we know it.”

Hecate let out a stuttering breath. It was then that Pippa became aware of how awfully close they were, and her hands were still touching her assistant in a way that could definitely be called over-familiar.

“How are you so certain of everything all of the time?” Hecate’s penetrating gaze was suddenly upon her, and she immediately dropped her hands.

“No use wasting time with worries that might never happen.”

“And if they do happen? Do you have a plan for getting us out of this whole mess?”

Pippa remained silent. The truth was, she didn’t expect to even get _this_ far. A change of subject was in order. “We really ought to eat something and get dressed in case they come back to hurry us along!” Pippa reached for the silver pot in the center of the tray. “You’ve poured me enough tea over the years. How about I make you a nice, soothing cup?”

Hecate’s baffled look almost brought a laugh to Pippa’s lips, but she sobered when she saw the bags under her eyes. Exactly how much sleep had either of them gotten? She wasn’t sure, but she knew it was far too little. As Pippa poured the tea, she thought of the incredible feats of unconscious magic that she had witnessed, and wondered exactly how to broach the subject.

“How do you take your tea?” Pippa asked, but carried on without allowing Hecate to answer, “They didn’t give us any rum, but cream and sugar should be just the ticket after a long night.”

Hecate’s whole body went stiff beside her. “Pippa—what happened last night—”

“Yes?” Pippa said, handing Hecate her tea. She was pretty sure she remembered that Hecate took a dash of cream and no sugar, but that was only a vague memory, an instinct with no fact necessarily behind it. After twenty years, Pippa felt a bit ashamed that she wasn’t entirely sure how her assistant took her tea. Surely, they must’ve had tea together at some point? They’d had plenty of working lunches and business dinners.

“I think you ought to sleep in a guest bedroom tonight.”

“What? Why?!”

Hecate took a sip of her tea to avoid answering. There was just a tad too much cream, but it would do.

“Because unconscious magic cannot be controlled. As unenthusiastic as I am about this wedding, I would prefer not to go to jail for killing my fiancé in my sleep.”

The joke fell flat. It wasn’t even a proper joke to begin with—just a terrifying truth.

“This again?” said Pippa, grabbing a scone and lathering it with butter. “You slept just fine after the first little hiccup.”

“Little hiccup?” Hecate’s eyes were wide with disbelief.

“Honestly, I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen,” Pippa said around the piece of scone in her mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me you were some kind of prodigy?”

 _Prodigy_. The word sank like a stone to the bottom of Hecate’s stomach. That was what her father had called her, when she was no more than three or four years old, because that was when he realized she could do unbelievable feats of magic beyond her years. It was the reason he enlisted the “help” of a highly recommended private tutor. She would never forget meeting Mistress Broomhead, with her towering height and stern face.

“I’m not a prodigy,” she said. _I’m a monster_ , the voice inside her head insisted.

She remembered waking up on the morning of her tenth birthday to her familiar curled beside her, only to discover it was dead. She had run crying to Miss Bat, begging her to bring it back. _Necromancy is forbidden, child_ , she had said, sadly. _It’s against The Code_.

Hecate shook her head to clear it of the memory. To this day, she wasn’t sure how the cat had died, but she suspected it was her fault. Mistress Broomhead had been especially cruel to her the day before, and she had connected her sleep-magic to lessons on “discipline.” Why she had performed it last night, she couldn’t fathom. It had been years since she woke from one of her nightmares to find that she had done magic.

Pippa was eyeing her from over her tea. “Well, if we’re getting married tomorrow, we won’t be sleeping together anyway.” Pippa realized the poor choice of words the moment they left her mouth. “I mean—you know—you’re not supposed to see the bride the night before the wedding?”

Hecate nearly choked on her tea. After she had placed the cup carefully down, she responded, “Well, yes, that is one tradition… I’m sure I could convince Miss Bat and Mother that we would like separate rooms for that reason…”

Pippa was confused by Hecate’s sudden change in tune. Didn’t she _want_ them to sleep separately? Wasn’t that what had started them down this road?

“You see…” said Hecate, closing her eyes for a moment. “I had forgotten, until this very moment, that there is another… tradition… that does not involve—” Hecate paused to clear her throat, “a guest bedroom.”

Pippa fidgeted nervously. “Okay…?”

“It requires both the bride and the groom—or rather, the two people getting married—to drink a potion…”

“What kind of potion?” said Pippa, suddenly terrified by the prospect of “royal” tradition.

“ _Cæcitas lasciui._ It removes the drinker’s ability to see.”

“So…” Pippa took a bracing sip of her tea to gather her thoughts. “Are you saying we have to drink a potion tonight to…make us blind?”

“No!” said Hecate. “We don’t _have_ to do anything. And the potion doesn’t make you truly blind…it’s a selective blindness. It is catered to the couple, so that they simply can’t see _each other_. It removes the possibility of accidentally seeing the bride before the wedding.”

Pippa didn’t like the idea of not being able to see Hecate, even if it _was_ tradition. “So, the couple can still sleep in the same room, as long as they can’t see each other? That sounds crazy to me.”

“It _is_ crazy. But the Hardbroom family is a suspicious one. Apparently, in the Dark Ages, there were a series of Hardbroom marriages that ended disastrously, and some superstitious person insisted it was because the couples had seen each other before the wedding ceremony. This led to the development of the potion, and whether by coincidence or by their earnest belief that the potion truly does alleviate some curse, there was a period of hundreds of years where the family had prosperous and long-lived marriages. My father was the first one in his line to refuse to drink the potion. He argued that since my mother was foreign, the tradition didn’t apply to her, and by extension, to him.”

“Did they see each other before the wedding?” asked Pippa, genuinely curious.

Hecate finished her tea with a decidedly large gulp. “I don’t know. I’ve never held much stock in the idea that Hardbroom marriages are cursed, but I must say, my parents’ relationship doesn’t make a compelling argument to the contrary.”

They sat in quiet reflection for a few moments before Hecate extricated herself from the bed. “We really ought to get ready. There isn’t much time.”

“When your mother said ‘half of Scotland’ is coming, she was exaggerating, right?” said Pippa nervously as she took one last bite of her scone.

“I think you’ll find that my mother rarely exaggerates,” said Hecate. Her eyes held a playful sparkle as she turned to open the wardrobe.

“So, just how many people will we need to curtsy to?”

Hecate turned back around, holding a light pink dress reminiscent of the Albertine roses Pippa had noticed in the garden last night.

“If the High Witch arrives with her family, I would certainly have to curtsy to them. Council members, too, I’m supposed to greet as if they have titles equal to my father’s. But otherwise, I am rarely the one doing the curtsying. You on the other hand,” Hecate said as she passed the pink dress to Pippa—really, why did Pippa bother packing at all if Hecate was just going to keep dressing her in her own clothes? — “will need to curtsy to just about everyone besides the staff.”

Pippa’s mouth fell open. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cæcitas lasciui" loosely translates to "willful blindness." 
> 
> Once again, so sorry for my long absence. I'm so happy to return to this piece. Please let me know what you think of this chapter. Your comments are what inspire me to stick to a much more frequent schedule of publishing new chapters.


	16. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa and Hecate arrive fashionably late to the garden party. Pippa receives new information as to the possible identity of the mysterious "A.C."

Pippa had never seen so many people in a garden before. Witches and wizards in ostentatious clothing buzzed around with drinks in their hands, making small talk and being altogether superficial, as far as Pippa could tell. While she herself had a reputation for being no more than a wealthy socialite, she knew that crowds like this were the kind you only entered if you were informed enough about the guest list to successfully navigate pointless conversations with the crème de la crème.

As it was, she and Hecate had hardly rematerialized fully from transference when a dark-haired woman wearing a frankly absurd outfit (complete with a birdcage that served as a hat) announced loudly to the garden at large that the witch of honor had arrived, latched onto Hecate’s arm, and dragged her off to the center of the crowd. Her name was foreign-sounding—so much so that Pippa would even hazard to call it “alien”—and her title was one Pippa wouldn’t soon forget: Daughter of the Seventh House, Holder of the Blessed Cup, Heir to the Hallowed Charms of Troy. Hecate had looked frankly alarmed to see the woman, and shot Pippa an apologetic glance as they were separated. Pippa could still hear the woman’s voice loud and clear from the center of the garden:

_“You’ve been gone too long, darling, too long! The Highlands have been positively_ bereft _without you! There can be no bonnie banks without their best bonnie girl, dear! Let me look at you—dear, darling Hecate, what_ have _you been eating?_ Are _you eating? This is what I get for spending a few brief decades in the Antipodes. Have they been_ starving _you in London? The English aren’t known for their food—”_

Mildly relieved that she wasn’t in the spotlight herself, for once, Pippa quietly sipped her champagne on the outermost edges of the garden. They had arrived fashionably late—which was absolutely, 100%, _not_ Pippa’s fault; if anything was to blame, it was Hecate’s hair, which she had begrudgingly allowed Pippa to fix by hand when it became clear magic just wasn’t doing the trick—and so the party was already in full-swing. If Pippa was being honest, she wished they were still in Hecate’s room, debating the suitability of wearing their hair up or down. It had been delightfully domestic, combing and weaving Hecate’s thick waves into elaborate braids. But she had to put a stop to such thoughts; none of this was real intimacy — it was all simply a result of an absurd situation.

Miss Bat’s appearance beside Pippa ended that line of thinking abruptly.

“You look a little lost, dear,” said Miss Bat, linking elbows. Miss Bat had also braided her hair; whenever the sun caught it, the silvery-white strands shone brilliantly. She was also wearing an alluring amethyst necklace that seemed to emanate a kind of powerful, magical essence that Pippa couldn't quite explain.

“I just didn’t expect this many people would come on such short notice.”

“The Duchess never fails to summon a crowd. Her parties were famous, back in the day,” said Miss Bat, whose eyes were trained on the woman in question, who was currently hovering in her wheelchair by a table decked with delicious-looking treats. Catalina was commanding the staff with the efficiency of a military general, and Pippa wondered, not for the first time, about the nature of the Duchess’ illness, and where the woman was finding the energy to do all this.

“I wish I could’ve attended one,” said Pippa, imagining a grand spectacle of music and dancing, with a somber, teenaged-Hecate standing off to the side, never quite comfortable enough to be a part of it.

“They were truly something to behold. But tonight’s ball will surely rival any that have come before!”

Pippa felt a bit light-headed at the thought of having to showcase her mediocre waltzing skills in front of such an esteemed crowd. But she smiled her way through the feeling and said, “How exciting!”

Miss Bat patted Pippa’s arm in a placating way. “You’ll be fine, dear.”

Just then, a scrappy-looking dog ran up to them and started barking ferociously at Pippa.

“What on earth—?”

Miss Bat laughed. “Oh, that’s just Star. Who’s a good boy?”

The old witch bent to pick the dog up, but the dog evaded her to continue barking at Pippa.

“Star! Star! Be nice,” said a young witch, skidding to a stop in front of them. “Calm down, Star! Sorry, Miss. He doesn’t like strangers.”

The little girl nearly tripped on her untied shoelaces as she picked up the dog. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and tied into two long, braided pigtails on either side of her head. She couldn’t be older than twelve, and her modest summer dress suggested she was not a member of the aristocracy.

“That’s quite all right. And you are?” said Pippa, wincing as the dog continued to bark.

“Mildred Hubble! Well met, Miss!” she said, shuffling the dog in her arms so she could cup her forehead with one hand.

“Well met,” said Pippa, glad to know at least one person at this party was polite enough to greet her.

“Where’s your mother, Mildred?” said Miss Bat, before turning to Pippa, “Julie Hubble is an artist. The Duchess has been a patron of the arts for many years, and Ms. Hubble’s work is particularly inspired.”

“She’s talking to Lady Hallow,” said Mildred, pulling a face. Pippa almost laughed at the obvious disdain the child held for the woman. “She told me to play with Ethel, but Star doesn’t like _her_ either!”

“Well, I’m sure the Nightshades will be arriving any moment, and then you’ll have Enid to talk to, won’t you?” said Miss Bat, patting Star on the head.

“Enid’s coming?!” said Mildred, her whole face lighting up.

“You know Narcissus Nightshade never misses a Hardbroom affair! And really, what party is complete without a little music, hmm?”

“Yes!” Mildred pumped her little fist in the air, nearly dropping the still-barking dog in her arms as a result. “I’m gonna see if the kitchens will make something for Star—that might keep him quiet for a bit. Bye Miss Bat! And Miss—um—”

“Pentangle,” supplied Pippa, mildly relieved that Star was being escorted away.

“Bye, Miss Pentangle!” Mildred shot over her shoulder.

Pippa sighed, happy to be able to hear the sounds of the party once more.

“You’re more of a cat person, aren’t you?” said Miss Bat with amusement as Mildred’s pigtails bounced out of sight.

“Actually, I prefer owls,” said Pippa.

“Those are remarkably keen and loyal animals—owls,” said Miss Bat, and suddenly Pippa was aware that Miss Bat was trying to convey something to her.

“Yes,” said Pippa, uncertainly. “They are.”

It was clear Miss Bat was about to continue when a flash of pink caught her eye.

“Pardon me, Miss Bat, but who is that woman talking to Hecate?”

Pippa could only see the back of the witch, but the woman was wearing a bubble-gum pink cardigan over a black ensemble, and had short, blonde hair. Pippa watched as Hecate’s face grew paler and paler while the conversation went on. She had a slightly panicked expression, which brought a frown to Pippa’s lips. What was the woman saying that had the ability to put that look on Hecate’s face?

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Bat, suddenly taking Pippa’s hand. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? There’s a wonderful display of foxgloves just behind these hedges here—”

Miss Bat was tugging her in the opposite direction of Hecate, which only served to make Pippa more determined to go to her assistant’s side.

“I think I really ought to go see what’s wrong—”

“That would be a mistake, dear,” said Miss Bat, her grip suddenly very firm. Pippa had no choice but to allow herself to be directed away. The old woman was _strong_.

“Really, Miss Bat, I don’t see why—”

“Miss Pentangle,” said Miss Bat, as they walked through a maze of hedges, “I hope you trust my judgment?”

Pippa found that despite only knowing the woman for less than twenty-four hours, she did indeed trust her. “Yes, of course.”

“The woman you just saw,” started Miss Bat, having to search for her next words long enough that they arrived in front of the foxgloves before she managed to finish her sentence, “was someone very important to Hecate. The Duchess invited her before she knew that you two were—engaged.”

Pippa swallowed around the lump that was suddenly in her throat. “You mean—that was—”

_A.C.,_ she thought, but before she could voice her thoughts, Miss Bat’s necklace started to glow.

“Oh dear,” said Miss Bat. “It looks like the Duchess needs me. I’m sorry to leave you like this, Miss Pentangle, but I think it would be wise for you to spend a few more moments admiring the foxgloves.”

With the message delivered, loud and clear, Miss Bat gave her hand one last squeeze before transferring away. Pippa felt a bit disoriented, standing alone in a far-away part of the garden, stewing in the knowledge that she might currently be wearing an engagement ring bearing the initials of someone who was only a short walk away.

“Well look what the familiar dragged in.”

Pippa jumped at the unexpected voice that came from behind her. She turned to see a blonde-haired witch in a smart, black skirt-suit. She had piercing blue eyes that had a cold edge to them, and painted red lips that were currently turned up in an insincere smile.

“Pardon me?”

The witch moved closer, into her personal space. If she planned to intimidate Pippa, the witch was sadly out of her depth; Pippa wasn’t easily cowed by anyone, let alone a smirking stranger at a garden party.

“Pentangle, isn’t it? You inherited your poor father’s little publishing house, didn’t you?”

Pippa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting to the slight against her father. “I did. And you are?”

“You don’t know who I am?” The witch’s eyes filled with a cruel variety of mirth. “Hecate hasn’t mentioned me?”

“As you have yet to introduce yourself, I couldn’t possibly answer that question,” said Pippa, unable to keep the frustration out of her tone.

“I’m the Duchess of Wormwood,” she said, tilting her head a bit, as if offended to be required to announce herself. “Lady Agatha Cackle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Please let me know what you think about the entrance of the Cackle twins, as well as the brief appearance made by Mildred Hubble.
> 
> For those of you with a keen eye, yes, I did put Lwaxana Troi into this fanfic, and no, I do not regret a thing. (obviously I changed a few things about our favorite Betazoid to keep this fic slightly out of "crossover" territory, but I hope at least some of you got enjoyment out of that little Easter egg.)


End file.
